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IN  THE  CHOIR 
gOF  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY 


Story  of  HENRY PURCELL'S  Days 

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HENRY  PUKCELL. 

From  the  picture  by  Sir  Godfrey  Kneller.     By  permission  of 
Mr.  Atjred  Littleton. 


IN  THE  CHOIR 
OF  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY 

A  STORY  OF  HENRY  PURCELL'S  DATS 


EMMA    MARSHALL 

Author  of1  Under  Salisbury  Spire,'  '  Kensington  Palace,' 
'  The  Master  of  the  Musicians?  Etc. 


With  Illustrations  by 
T.  HAMILTON  CRAWFORD,  R.S.W. 


THIRD   EDITION 


LONDON 

SEELEY    AND    CO.    LIMITED 
38  GREAT  RUSSELL 
1899 


A 


TO 
THE  REV.  JOHN   TROUTBECK,  D.D. 

PRECENTOR  OF  WESTMINSTER 
CHAPLAIN-IN-ORDINARY  TO  THE  QUEEN 

IN  MEMORY  OF  OLD  FRIENDSHIP 


I  AM  indebted  to  the  Life  of  Purcell  by  Mr 
Cummings  for  many  of  the  incidents  related  in 
connection  with  him  in  this  story. 

Mr  Gosse's  Life  of  Congreve  has  also  been  con- 
sulted, with  such  contemporary  history  of  the  Re- 
volution of  1688  and  accession  of  William  and 
Mary  as  bore  upon  the  musical  compositions  of 
the  great  organist  of  Westminster  Abbey. 

WOODSIDE,  LEIGH  WOODS,  CLIFTON, 
September  1897. 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 


PACK 


PORTRAIT  OF  HENRY  PURCELL,  AFTER  KNELLER,       (Frontispiece) 

WEST  FRONT  OF  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY, 30 

NORTH  TRANSEPT  OF  WESTMINSTER  ABBF.Y.            .           .           .           .  58 

CORONATION  OF  JAMES  II .....  76 

WESTMINSTER  HALL  AND  ABBEY, l6o 

CHOIR  OF  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY. 226 

WESTMINSTER  HALL, 266 

WESTMINSTER  ABBEY  FROM  DEAN*S  YARD,               ....  306 


In   the  Choir  of  Westminster 
Abbey 

CHAPTER    I 

A.  D.     1684 

As  I  look  back  on  my  past  life,  I  may  say  it  has 
been  uneventful,  yet  it  has  fallen  to  my  lot  to  see 
and  hear  much  regarding  those  whose  names  are 
famous.  So,  mayhap,  the  record,  which  is  a  pleas- 
ing occupation  to  write,  will  be  of  interest  to  my 
descendants  when  I  have  passed  hence. 

There  comes  to  most  of  us  a  time  of  awakening 
from  the  dreams  of  childhood,  a  time  when  the 
shadows  and  bright  visions  of  youth  change  into 
realities — times  when  we  are  brought  face  to  face 
with  the  conviction  that  our  pathway  is  not  always 
flower-strewn,  but  there  are  thorns  and  brambles 
to  encounter,  and  rough  places  to  pass  over,  which 
cannot  be  avoided. 

3 


4  IN  THE  CHOIR  OF 

Such  an  awakening  came  to  me  on  a  spring 
day  in  the  year  of  grace  1684.  The  harsh  voice 
of  my  stepmother  called  me  from  the  poultry- 
yard,  where  I  was  feeding  the  pigeons,  and  sing- 
ing to  myself  as  I  scattered  the  grain  for  the 
pretty  creatures,  who  came  down  from  the  dove- 
cot, preening  their  feathers  and  strutting  hither 
and  thither  as  they  pecked  and  cooed  at  my 
feet,  for  they  knew  me,  and  counted  me  as  a 
friend. 

1  Betty ! '  —  the  call  was  repeated  — '  come  this 
instant;  you  are  wanted — Betty!'  I  had  a  per- 
verse desire  never  to  hurry  when  my  stepmother 
called  me  in  threatening  tones.  So  I  walked 
leisurely  enow  to  the  gate  of  the  yard,  and  saw 
my  stepmother  standing  at  the  back  door  of  our 
low-roofed  house,  repeating,  '  Betty,  you  tiresome 
nussy!  go  and  smooth  your  tangled  hair,  and 
put  on  a  clean  cap,  for  a  gentleman  wants  to 
see  you.  You  are  not  well  favoured,  I  can  tell 
you,  and  had  need  make  the  best  of  yourself. 
You  are  no  beauty,  and  a  sad  slattern.' 

I  had  heard  this  many  a  time,  and  was  not 
greatly  moved  by  it.  I  lived  my  own  life  apart 
from  my  stepmother  and  her  children.  Certain 
it  is  I  gave  her  no  cause  to  love  me,  and  was,  I 
well  believe,  far  from  trying  to  win  her  favour. 


WESTMINSTER  ABBEY  5 

How  it  was  my  poor  father  married  a  shrew,  who 
brought  four  children  by  her  first  husband,  as  well  as 
an  orphan  nephew  of  his — by  name  Edmund  Pel- 
ham — I  cannot  tell. 

It  is  ever  a  mystery  why  sharp-tongued  women 
manage  to  get  husbands  over  whom  they  ride 
rough-shod,  while  many  a  gentle  one  is  left  un- 
wooed  and  unwed.  It  would  seem  that  vixens 
win  in  the  long  run,  and  get  men  to  marry  them 
by  hook  or  by  crook.  Witness  my  stepmother, 
who  had  had  two  husbands,  and  was  ready  for  a 
third — if  he  presented  himself. 

I  went  up  to  my  garret  in  the  roof  and  did  my 
stepmother's  bidding.  I  had,  as  she  said,  tangled 
hair,  but  I  thrust  it  back  under  the  best  cap  which  I 
wore  on  Sundays,  tied  with  cherry-coloured  riband, 
and  let  down  my  skirt,  which  was  pulled  through 
the  pocket  holes  to  keep  it  out  of  the  way  when 
about  my  work  in  the  poultry-yard  and  dairy, 
and  tied  on  a  clean  apron  with  a  bib  to  hide 
blemishes,  and  so  went  to  the  parlour. 

'  Oh  !  is  this  the  girl,  Mistress  Lockwood  ?  And 
you  want  to  get  rid  of  her — eh  ? ' 

'  Make  your  curtsey,  Betty.  This  is  his  rever- 
ence, Master  William  Gostling,  who  is  so  conde- 
scending as  to  wish  to  see  you.' 

I    felt  a   pair  of  keen  eyes  were   looking  at  me 


6  IN  THE  CHOIR  OF 

from  head  to  foot.  Then  Mr  Gostling  said  with 
a  kindly  smile, — 

'Stepmother  and  you  don't  agree,  and  you  won't 
break  your  hearts  if  you  part  company  ? ' 

'  I'll  answer  for  myself,'  my  stepmother  said,  '  and 
I  shall  be  thankful  if  Betty  is  a  good  girl  and  earns 
her  bread.  I  have  much  ado  to  live,  with  four 
of  my  own  children  to  feed  and  clothe ;  and  a 
strapping  lass  like  Betty  should  better  herself  if 
the  chance  comes  in  her  way.  She  is  mostly  in 
a  dream  here,  and  full  of  vagaries.' 

'That  won't  answer  for  the  place  I  have  in  view 
for  her.  No  dreaming  and  no  vagaries,  but  quick- 
ness and  diligence  and  readiness  to  serve.  But 
come  hither,  Betty,'  Mr  Gostling  said,  '  and  tell  me 
your  mind.' 

I  curtseyed  and  said, — 

'  First,  sir,  an  it  pleases  you,  I  must  know  yours.' 

A  pleasant  smile  broke  over  the  face,  which  was 
bent  towards  me. 

'That's  just  and  proper.  So  now  I  will  tell  you 
all  I  have  to  tell.  I  have  a  dear  friend,  by  name 
Master  Henry  Purcell,  who  lives  in  Dean's  Yard, 
Westminster.  His  good  wife  needs  help  in  the 
household — not  menial  service,  but  help.  More- 
over, there  is  a  great  deal  of  copying  music  to 
be  done,  mechanical  work,  needing  neatness  and 


WESTMINSTER  ABBEY  7 

precision.  Do  you  take  to  this  offer?  If  so,  I 
shall,  so  I  hope,  do  you  and  my  friend  a  kindness, 
and  a  kindness  to  one  whom  I  held  in  high  esteem 
— your  dead  mother.' 

'  Oh !  sir,'  I  exclaimed,  '  if  you  knew  her ' —  and 
then  I  was  choked  with  tears. 

'  Yes,  yes,  I  knew  her ;  a  fair,  sweet  creature,  with 
the  voice  of  an  angel,  and  of  gentle  birth.  You  do 
not  resemble  her  except  in  the  tones  of  your  voice.' 

And  here  my  stepmother  interrupted. 

'  I've  oftentimes  heard  Betty's  rather  say  she- 
favoured  him  and  not  her  mother ;  but  she  has 
got  her  vagaries  from  her,  for  the  poor  thing 
never  knew  whether  she  was  on  her  head  or  her 
heels ! ' 

'  Tut !  tut !  Mistress  Lockwood,'  Mr  Gostling 
said,  bristling  up,  '  methinks  it  is  ill-spoken  to  dis- 
parage the  dead.  Whatsoever  Frances  Lockwood 
did,  she  was  an  angel  of  goodness.' 

My  stepmother,  fearful  of  offending  Mr  Gostling, 
hastened  to  draw  back  her  words,  and  declared 
she  knew  my  mother,  and  that  she  was  all  Mr 
Gostling  said  she  was. 

'  Oh !  sir,'  I  ventured  to  say,  '  I  am  not  wanted 
here.  I  pray  you  let  me  go  to  your  friends.  I 
will  do  my  utmost,  I  will  indeed.' 

Even  now  I  can  recall  the  thrill  of  delight  with 


8  IN  THE  CHOIR  OF 

which  I  felt  the  hand  of  Mr  Gostling  laid  on  my 
shoulder  as  he  said, — 

'Well,  you  shall  make  a  trial  of  this,  at 
anyrate,  and  get  yourself  ready  to  start  by 
the  stage-waggon  which  passes  this  way  by  the 
Tuesday  in  next  week.  I  will  meet  you  at  the 
hostel  where  the  stage  puts  down  its  passengers, 
and  take  you  to  Dean's  Yard.  Do  you  love 
music  ? ' 

Now,  I  had  only  heard  the  bassoon  and  fiddle 
in  our  village  church,  and  yet  music  was  in  my 
soul,  else  how  was  it  the  song  of  the  birds,  the 
ripple  of  the  mill  stream,  the  whisper  of  the  wind 
often  moved  me  to  ecstasy. 

I've  lain  many  a  time  listening  to  the  sounds 
around  me,  and  longing,  longing  to  keep  ever  in 
the  enchanted  ground  they  made  for  me.  Thus,  as 
I  say,  I  had  lived  my  life  apart  for  sixteen  years, 
with  but  scant  knowledge  of  whM:  was  passing 
around  me,  weary  of  the  spoiled,  unruly  children, 
doing  little  services,  such  as  skimming  the  milk 
in  the  dairy  and  feeding  the  pigeons,  in  a  desultory 
way.  But  to  Mr  Gostling's  question,  Do  you  love 
music?  put  in  the  deep  bass  voice,  such  as,  sure, 
there  never  was  one  deeper,  I  answered, — 

'  Yes,  sir ;  I  know  I  do ;  though  I  have  never 
heard  any  except — ' 


WESTMINSTER  ABBEY  9 

I  stopped,  it  seemed  so  strange  to  say  I  loved 
what  I  had  never  heard. 

'  Except  what,  child  ?     Speak  out' 

'Except  the  music  that  is  all  around  me — the 
music  of  the  birds,  and  the  dripping  water,  and 
the  wind.' 

'  There,  that  will  do,  that  will  do.  You  will  soon 
know  what  music  is  when  once  you  have  listened 
to  Master  Purcell  on  the  organ ;  you  will  hear  in 
it,  as  he  calls  it  forth,  the  wind  and  the  waves, 
and  all  the  hundred  voices  which  are,  with  due 
reverence  let  me  say  it,  as  the  voice  of  God  to 
the  soul  of  man.' 

Mr  Gostling  and  I  were  left  alone  in  the  parlour 
while  my  stepmother  went  to  fetch  a  tankard  of 
spiced  canary  and  some  sweet  biscuits  from  the 
buttery  for  his  refreshment. 

'  You  will  not  be  sorry  to  leave  your  home  ? 
Mistress  Lockwood  told  a  friend  of  mine  in  Canter- 
bury that  she  wished  to  find  you  a  place  in  some 
gentleman's  family,  for  she  was  put  to  it  for  money. 
This  seems  strange.' 

'  Indeed  it  is  strange,  sir,  for  it  is  all  my  father's 
money.  She  has  none,  save  what  he  left  her  ;  and  yet 
she  has  grudged  me  my  fare,  and  had  it  not  been  for 
Edmund  Pelham,  I  should  never  have  had  a  book 
or  learned  aught  He  has  come  hither  from  his 


io  IN  THE  CHOIR  OF 

college,  and  he  has  brought  me  books  and  taught 
me  a  little  Latin,  and  has  bid  me  take  heart,  for 
the  longest  lane  has  a  turning.' 

Mr  Gostling  laughed. 

'  Yours  has  been  but  a  short  lane,  child,  and  I  fear 
me  you  have  lacked  patience,  but  I  look  to  you  to 
fulfil  the  duties  which  fall  to  you  in  Master  Pur- 
cell's  household.  No  dreaming,  you  understand — 
no  vagaries — though  I  scarce  know  what  Mistress 
Lockwood  means  by  this.' 

My  stepmother  returned  now  with  the  silver  cup 
and  biscuits,  followed  by  Tommy,  the  youngest 
of  her  children,  who,  unmannerly  chtid  as  he  was, 
stretched  out  a  greedy  hand  and  half  cleared  the 
platter  of  the  cakes.  His  mother  boxed  his  ears, 
but  he  only  grinned  and  scampered  off  to  the  or- 
chard, from  which  we  soon  heard  cries  and  quarrels, 
and  I  knew  it  was  no  doubt  because  his  sister 
Madge  would  fain  share  his  prize. 

I  counted  the  days  and  hours  till  Tuesday,  and 
set  about  my  preparations  with  a  will.  Strange  to 
say,  my  stepmother  was  for  once  kinder  than  her 
wont.  She  brought  out  some  taffeta  and  lace  which 
had  been  my  own  mother's,  and  she  gave  me  a  small 
oaken  chest  to  hold  my  best  attire,  instead  of  rolling 
it  up  in  a  package,  which  travelling  on  horseback 
made  necessary. 


WESTMINSTER  ABBEY  \\ 

The  evening  before  my  departure  I  was  surprised 
to  see  Edmund  Pelham  come  up  the  garden  path. 
He  found  me  in  the  porch.  My  stepmother  had 
gone  into  the  village  with  Madge  and  Tommy,  and 
I  was  free  to  sit  quiet  and  try  to  fancy  what  my 
future  life  would  be. 

'  Hallo,  little  Bet !  at  the  old  game — moping  by 
yourself.  I  am  on  my  way  to  present  myself  for  a 
tutor's  place  at  Eastham,  and  thought  I  would  look 
in  on  my  way.  I  came  on  foot  from  Cambridge, 
and  I  am  dead  tired.'  He  threw  himself  down 
on  the  floor  of  the  porch  at  my  feet,  and  asked, 
'  How  goes  the  Faerie  Queen,  and  what  think  you 
of  Shakespeare's  sonnets  ?  ' 

'  I  have  got  some  of  them  by  heart,'  I  said ;  '  but, 
Edmund,  I  am  going  away  from  home  ;  you  are 
only  just  in  time.  I  start  by  the  stage-waggon  on 
the  morrow.' 

'  Going  away ! — that's  bad  news.  Has  she  been 
more  vicious  than  usual?' 

'  No ;  kinder.  It  is  nought  to  do  with  her  this 
time,  except  that  she  made  it  known  to  some  gos- 
sips of  hers  in  Canterbury  that  it  was  time  I  earned 
my  bread.' 

Edmund  started  up. 

'  Shame  ! '  he  cried  ;  '  your  father  never  made  his 
will  as  he  should  have  done,  but  he  trusted  to 


12  IN  THE  CHOIR  OF 

madam  to  see  you  well  provided  for.  Earn  your 
bread,  forsooth !  Why,  you  should  have  the  best 
to  be  had  here.  Is  it  all  spending  on  those 
brats  ? ' 

'  She  has  to  pay  Dick  and  Harry's  schooling  at 
Hitchin,  and  two  of  the  milch  cows  got  a  dis- 
temper and  died,  and  oh  !  she  says  she  can  scarce 
pay  her  way.  But,  Edmund,  I  am  well  pleased  to 
go.  I  am  not  wanted  here,  nor  loved,  nor  cared 
for.  It  is  best  for  me  to  go.' 

'And,  pray,  where  are  you  going?' 

'To  Westminster,  to  live  with  Mistress  Purcell/ 

'What!  the  wife  of  the  great  musician  everyone 
is  beginning  to  talk  of?' 

'  Yes ;  Master  Gostling  is  Master  Purcell's  friend, 
and  he  it  is  who  has  furthered  the  scheme.' 

'That  sounds  a  better  plan  than  I  had  feared. 
Yet,  Betty,  it  is  ill  done  to  turn  you  out  from  Ivy 
Farm — from  your  home.' 

'  It  has  not  been  like  home  since  Madam  Lock- 
wood  came  into  it.  If  it  had  not  been  for  you,  I 
should  have  had  no  friend  here.  It  is,  as  I  say, 
quite  the  best  thing  that  I  should  go.' 

'  Well,  it  may  be  so,  but  if  you  are  not  happy  at 
Westminster,  let  me  know.  I  intend  to  get  up  in 
the  world,  and  if  I  do,  you  shall  rise  with  me — eh, 
Betty?' 


WESTMINSTER  ABBEY  13 

'Time  enough  to  think  of  that,'  I  said. 

'I  have  taken  my  degree  at  Cambridge,  and  I 
mean  to  get  to  the  Bar.  Meanwhile,  to  keep  my 
head  above  water,  I  shall  get  the  care  of  a  dunder- 
head to  try  and  drive  some  Latin  and  Greek  into 
his  head.  He  is  the  only  son  of  a  pair  of  doting 
parents,  Sir  William  and  my  Lady  Audrey  Wilmot. 
I  shall  enter  at  the  Temple  all  the  same,  and 
eat  my  dinners  and  see  you  when  I  come  to  do 
this,  so  you  won't  be  quite  rid  of  me,  little 
Bet!' 

'As  if  I  wished  to  be  rid  of  the  only  friend  I 
have  in  the  wide  world ! '  I  answered. 

I  remember  new,  as  if  'twere  yesterday,  how 
Edmund  looked  up  into  my  face  as  he  lay  at  my 
feet,  and,  taking  my  hand,  said, — 

'  I  will  not  bind  you,  Betty,  with  any  promise, 
but  I  swear  that  nought  shall  turn  my  heart  from 
you,  and  when  I  rise,  as  rise  I  will,  if  you  con- 
sent, you  shall  share  my  good  fortune.' 

'  You  will  find  someone  else  by  that  time,'  I  said. 
'You  will  see  a  fair  lady  who  will  be  proud  to 
have  you  for  a  suitor,  and  then  you  will  wonder 
you  ever  cared  for  me.  I  am  no  beauty  —  my 
stepmother  is  right  in  that.' 

'  And  I  vow  she  is  wrong.  Were  ever  eyes  like 
yours,  Bet  ?  They  are  like  nothing  in  the  world 


u  IN  THE  CHOIR  OF 

so  much  as  the  brown  pool  by  the  mill — brown 
but  clear  in  its  cool  depths.  And  then  your  hair 
— how  it  ripples  in  the  sunshine  ! ' 

'And  then  my  short  nose,'  I  said,  laughing, 
'  which  turns  upwards,  I  am  afraid  ;  and  my  large 
mouth  and  my  sallow  cheeks.' 

I  spoke  in  jest,  for  I  did  not  wish  Edmund  to 
know  how  in  my  secret  heart  I  was  thrilled 
with  his  words,  and  that  I  knew  now  for  the 
first  time  that  I  loved  him — him  only! 

I  was  only  just  past  my  sixteenth  birthday,  and 
he  was  twenty-three.  Was  it  likely  he  would  hold 
to  me,  so  handsome  as  he  was,  so  clever,  and  with 
talents  far  above  the  ordinary  young  gentleman 
of  the  time  ? 

'  It  is  all  very  fine  for  you  to  jest,  Betty.  It  is 
no  jesting  matter  to  me,  child !  Have  you  not 
known — have  you  not  seen  how,  from  that  day 
when  I  found  you  crying  on  your  father's  grave, 
I  have  loved  you  ?  ' 

I  cannot  tell  what  answer  I  might  have  given, 
had  not  Tommy,  with  a  loud  whoop,  come  tearing 
into  the  garden,  shouting, — 

'  Here's  Ted  !     Here's  Ted  courting  Bet ! ' 

'  Hold  your  tongue,  you  young  rascal ! '  Edmund 
said,  and  I  sprang  to  my  feet  to  hear  my  step- 
mother say  in  no  very  pleased  tones, — 


WESTMINSTER  ABBEY  15 

'  What  brings  you  here,  Edmund  ?  I  thought 
you  were  still  at  Cambridge  ? ' 

'  I  am  on  my  way  to  Eastham,  five  miles  off. 
I  turned  in  here  to  see  you,  but  I'll  put  up  at  the 
hostel  in  the  village,  if  so  it  pleases  you,  Aunt 
Anne.' 

'  Nay,  Edmund,  be  not  so  testy.  You  are  wel- 
come. Your  chamber  here  is  always  at  your  ser- 
vice. Come  into  the  parlour.  I'll  send  the  children 
to  bed,  and  then  I'll  hear  your  news.' 

It  was  to  my  stepmother's  interest  to  be  civil 
to  Edmund  Pelham.  He  had  a  small  fortune  in- 
herited from  his  mother,  and  I  had  reason  to 
know,  in  later  times,  that  he  had  often  given  a 
dole  of  money  to  his  aunt,  who  was  in  good 
sooth  only  his  aunt  by  marriage,  her  first  hus- 
band's sister  having  married  his  father,  who  had 
made  some  money  as  a  jeweller  and  goldsmith  in 
the  city. 

The  last  of  all  familiar  things  is  ever  painful. 
Thus  I  felt  sorrowful  when  I  thought  I  should 
never  sleep  again  in  the  little  garret  where  I  had 
passed  many  a  solitary  hour. 

The  old  pear  tree,  which  covered  the  wall  of  the 
house  under  my  lattice,  was  putting  forth  its  rounded 
white  blossoms,  one  branch  lying  across  the  lower 
pane  of  my  window. 


16  IN  THE  CHOIR  OF 

I  leaned  out  to  breathe  the  fresh,  crisp  air  of  the 
spring  night,  and  looked  up  at  the  starlit  sky, 
questioning,  as  I  had  often  done  before,  what  lay  in 
those  depths,  concealed  by  the  glare  of  the  sun, 
and  revealed  when  darkness  crept  over  the  face 
of  the  earth. 

It  was  but  natural  that,  in  the  stillness  of  the 
night,  I  should  rehearse  the  words  of  love  Edmund 
had  spoken — natural  that  it  was  sweet  to  me  to 
think  there  was  one  who  loved  me  best. 

'  Not  bound,'  he  said.  '  Not  bound  by  any  promise.' 
That  cut  two  ways.  If  I  was  not  bound,  neither  was 
he,  and  I  felt  it  was  but  likely  he  would  soon  forget 
me.  Yet  I  would  fain  believe  he  would  remember, 
and  for  myself— ah  !  for  myself — there  could  never 
be  a  doubt.  Having  learned  that  I  loved  Edmund 
Pelham,  I  could  not  forget  the  lesson  henceforth, 
so  I  thought ! 

My  farewells  were  soon  spoken  the  next  morning. 

My  stepmother  did  not  show  any  regret  at  my 
departure.  It  was  a  relief  to  her,  and  she  did  not 
hide  it. 

Madge  and  Tommy  made  me  promise  I  would 
bring  plenty  of  hardbake  and  ginger  nuts  when  I 
came  back  from  London,  and  Giles  and  Rhoda — 
the  man  and  his  wife  who  helped  on  the  farm  and 
in  the  house — seemed  more  sorry  to  lose  me  than 


WESTMINSTER  ABBEY  17 

I  could  have  expected,  Rhoda  throwing  her  apron 
over  her  head  as  she  turned  away  from  the  door  to 
hide  her  tears,  while  Giles  shouldered  my  box  and 
I  carried  the  package  which  held  my  extra  aprons 
and  little  matters  that  did  not  fit  into  the  chest. 

When  we  got  to  the  hostel  to  wait  for  the  stage, 
I  found  Edmund  Pelham  there. 

I  had  not  seen  him  that  morning,  and  thought  he 
had  gone  early  to  Eastham. 

I  affected  a  lightsome  mood,  which  hid  my  real 
feelings,  and  I  did  my  best  to  jest  and  laugh,  while 
I  would  sooner  have  cried  and  sobbed.  However, 
there  was  not  time  for  many  words,  for  the  stage 
came  rumbling  up,  and  I  was  soon  stowed  away 
inside  the  stage  with  four  other  passengers,  who 
had  many  bundles  and  packages,  so  that  we  were 
near  suffocated  for  air. 

I  called  to  Edmund  that  I  would  sooner  ride  on 
the  roof,  but  he  shook  his  head, — 

'  No,'  he  said,  coming  close  to  the  narrow  window. 
'No,  you  had  best  stay  where  you  are.  There  are 
no  women  on  the  roof.'  He  held  my  hand  till  the 
last  moment.  Then  the  horn  blew,  there  was  a 
scraping  of  the  horses'  feet,  and  we  jogged  off. 

My  fellow  travellers  were  too  much  occupied  with 
their  own  concerns  to  take  heed  of  me,  and  I  soon 
fell  into  a  dose  and  slept  for  the  greater  part  of 

B 


1 8  IN  THE  CHOIR  OF 

the  journey — awoke  once  by  the  coach  getting  into 
a  rut  and  being  nearly  overturned,  and  got  out  with 
much  hallooing  and  noise ;  and  again,  later  in  the 
day,  by  a  scare  as  to  gentlemen  of  the  road.  They 
stopped  the  stage,  but  finding  no  likelihood  of  booty, 
went  off  for  richer  prey. 

In  the  dim,  fast-fading  light  of  the  spring  evening, 
dazed  and  weary,  I  found  myself  in  the  courtyard 
of  the  inn  where  the  stage  stopped,  and  a  deep  bass 
voice  cried  out, — 

'  Is  a  young  gentlewoman  here  named  Lockwood  ? 
Ha ! '  Mr  Gostling  said,  '  here  you  are.  I  over- 
looked you  in  the  crowd.  Now,  then,  we  will  get 
your  baggage  carried  by  a  hand  porter,  and  I  will 
take  care  of  you  to  Westminster.  Tired,  eh?' 

'  Yes,  sir,'  I  said, '  and  cramped  in  my  feet.' 

'  Poor  little  one !  I  will  get  you  a  cup  of  wine  ere 
we  set  out  on  foot  to  Westminster.' 

So  we  turned  into  the  parlour  of  the  hostel,  where 
Mr  Gostling  ordered  a  cup  of  wine  and  a  platter  of 
cakes,  bidding  me  eat  and  drink  and  refresh  myself. 

This  was  only  one  of  the  many  acts  of  kindness 
I  received  at  the  hands  of  Mr  Gostling.  There  were 
several  people  in  the  parlour,  and  I  heard  Mr  Gost- 
ling say,— 

'  Ay,  it  was  a  wondrous  escape.  I  only  marvel  I 
am  alive  to  tell  the  tale.' 


WESTMINSTER  ABBEY  19 

'  His  Majesty  was  in  peril  also,'  one  of  the  ques- 
tioners said. 

'  In  peril !  I  tell  you  it  was  the  narrowest  escape 
king  or  subject  ever  had.' 

'  A  warning,  methinks,  a  warning ;  but,  'twixt  you 
and  me,  sir,  if  the  lady  who  gave  the  yacht  her  name 
of  Fubbs  were  at  the  bottom  of  the  sea,  it  would  be 
the  ill  wind  which  blew  good  to  the  country.' 

'Hush!  hush!  man;  you  forget  you  are  speak- 
ing before  a  favourite  of  His  Majesty's,  whose  bass 
voice  has  brought  him  not  only  favour  but  guineas.' 

'  In  a  silver  egg — is  not  that  so,  Master  Gostling  ? ' 

'You  are  full  of  questions,'  Mr  Gostling  said. 
'I  am  not  bound  to  answer  them.  Come,  child, 
we  must  be  off,  or  we  shall  need  to  hire  a  link-boy, 
the  evening  is  closing  in.' 

I  heard  all  that  passed,  but  I  could  not  under- 
stand aught  of  it. 

'Fubbs.'  What  a  queer,  ugly  name,  I  thought. 
Is  anyone  called  in  sober  earnest  Fubbs  ? 

But  remembering  that  Mr  Gostling  had  not  been 
pleased  at  being  questioned  by  the  men  in  the 
parlour  of  the  hostel,  I  forbore  to  do  so. 

I  trudged  along  by  his  side,  while  he  hummed 
airs  in  his  deep,  yet  musical  voice,  and  as  I  passed 
through  the  streets  and  saw  what  seemed  to  me 
unnumbered  houses,  I  began  to  realise  that  I  was 


20    IN  THE  CHOIR  OF  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY 

alone  in  the  great  city,  and  my  heart  turned  to  him 
who  had  spoken  words  of  love  to  me  the  evening 
before. 

Why  had  I  jested  and  laughed  when  we  parted, 
while  Edmund's  face  showed  signs  of  strong  emo- 
tion? What  would  I  not  have  given  now  for  the 
clasp  of  his  hand — for  the  sound  of  his  voice? 

With  these  thoughts  I  stumbled  along.  My  feet, 
all  unaccustomed  to  the  paving  stones  of  a  town, 
ached  with  soreness  and  weariness.  And  my  guide, 
just  in  advance,  walked  on,  having  hired  a  link- 
boy  to  precede  him,  the  lurid  light  of  his  torch 
scarcely  needed  in  the  twilight,  which  was  deepen- 
ing every  moment.  At  last  we  came  to  an  open 
space,  and  Mr  Gostling,  turning,  said, — 

'That  is  the  Abbey  before  you/ 

The  Abbey !  And  almost  as  he  spoke  the  clock 
chimed  for  seven ;  and  above  the  murmur  of  the  city, 
the  call  of  the  link-boys,  the  footfalls  of  passers-by, 
the  bells  were  like  a  voice  from  the  dark-blue  sky 
above,  against  which  were  the  massive  walls  of 
Westminster  Abbey. 

It  looked  so  stupendous  to  me,  so  vast,  so  mys- 
terious, I  stood  looking  up  at  its  dim,  dark  outline 
till  Mr  Gostling  said, — 

'You'll  have  time  enow  to  gaze  at  the  Abbey, 
child,  for  you  will  live  under  its  shadow.' 


CHAPTER    II 

A.  D.    1684 

WE  now  turned  into  a  square  under  an  archway, 
and  Mr  Gostling  stopped  before  the  door  of  a  small 
house,  on  which  he  gave  a  thundering  rap  with  the 
head  of  his  stick.  Dismissing  the  link -boy  with 
the  money  he  asked  for,  Mr  Gostling,  always  im- 
patient of  delay,  knocked  again. 

Then  bolts  and  bars  were  withdrawn,  and  a  clear 
voice,  many  degrees  higher  in  pitch  than  Mr  Gost- 
ling's,  said, — 

'Who  could  it  be  bringing  the  house  about  our 
ears  but  the  Reverend  Will  Gostling.' 

'  I've  brought  the  little  maiden,  as  agreed,'  Mr 
Gostling  said.  '  Step  in,  child,  and  show  yourself  to 
the  chiefest  musician  in  England.' 

<So  saith  the  biggest  bass  voice  in  England  or 
the  world,'  Mr  Purcell  replied,  with  a  laugh. 


22  IN  THE  CHOIR  OF 

'Come  in,  come  in,  and  I  will  call  the  mistress 
You  must  need  your  supper/  Mr  Purcell  said 
kindly,  'after  your  journey.' 

I  wanted  nothing  so  much  as  bed,  where  I  might 
hide  the  tears  which  I  had  much  ado  to  keep  back. 
But  now  I  found  myself  in  a  parlour,  lighted  not 
only  by  the  lamp  hanging  from  the  oak  beam  that 
crossed  the  roof,  but  by  two  large  candles  standing 
on  a  desk  covered  with  papers.  In  another  corner 
of  the  parlour,  in  a  recess,  was  a  table  with  a 
basket  of  needlework,  and  before  it  Mrs  Purcell 
was  seated. 

'  Here,  then,  Fan,  is  the  little  handmaiden  you 
have  desired  to  ease  your  burdens,  and  you  must 
needs  give  her  a  welcome.' 

Mrs  Purcell  looked  at  me  with  a  pair  of  bright, 
searching  eyes,  and  said, — 

'She  is  very  small,  Henry.     What  is  her  age?' 

Then,  untying  my  hood,  my  hair  fell  down  over 
my  figure. 

'  Well,  she  has  a  growth  of  hair,  in  good  sooth. 
We  must  cut  oft  some  of  these  heavy  locks, 
child.' 

'  May  it  please  you,  madam,'  I  said,  '  I  am  not  a 
child.  I  am  sixteen  years  old,  and — and — '  My 
voice  was  trembling,  and,  afraid  I  would  burst  out 
crying,  I  stopped  short. 


WESTMINSTER  ABBEY  23 

'  Sixteen !  Who  could  have  thought  it  ? '  Mr 
Purcell  said;  'but  hasten  to  get  us  supper,  dear 
wife,  and  then  you  shall  put  the  little  maid  to  bed. 
She  has  had  a  long  and  tiresome  journey.' 

Mrs  Purcell  went  to  do  her  husband's  bidding, 
and  I  was  left  in  the  parlour  with  Mr  Gostling.  Mr 
Purcell  went  across  the  passage  to  another  room, 
whence  came  the  sound  of  a  harpsichord  and  viola. 

'  Music,  music,  concord  of  sweet  sounds !  it  is 
the  air  you  will  breathe  in  this  house,'  Mr  Gostling 
said,  and  then  he  seated  himself  at  a  harpsichord 
and  began  to  sing,  from  a  sheet  of  music  which  lay 
on  the  desk,  the  words, '  They  that  go  down  to  the 
sea  in  ships.' 

The  sound  of  his  voice  hushed  the  music  in  the 
other  parlour,  and  Mr  Purcell  came  back  with  a 
young  man.  He  was  quite  young  himself,  only 
twenty-five. 

'  I  have  only  wrote  those  first  bars ;  before  I  pro- 
ceed further,  my  good  friend,  you  must  relate  the 
story  once  more.  You  gave  me  but  the  outline 
t'other  day.  Let  us  have  it  before  supper.  It  will 
pass  the  time,  for  my  good  wife  is  somewhat  tardy 
in  her  cooking,  and  needs  help,  for  she  has  never 
been  strong  for  work  since  the  birth  and  death  of 
our  little  son.' 

They  seemed  to  forget  my  presence.     Now,  after 


24  IN  THE  CHOIR  OF 

long,  long  years,  I  can  recall  myself  as  I  sat  on 
the  high  chair  where  Mrs  Purcell  had  placed  me, 
my  feet  scarce  touching  the  ground,  my  tangled 
locks  falling  over  my  figure,  the  desolation  of  my 
heart  unsuspected  and  uncared  for.  Yet  soon,  as 
I  listened  to  Mr  Gostling's  story,  I  forgot  my  lone- 
liness and  forgot  myself  in  the  intense  earnestness 
with  which  the  tale  of  deliverance  was  told,  with 
scarce  repressed  emotion.  Mr  Gostling  had  what  is 
well  called  dramatic  power  of  description. 

He  brought  before  us  the  whole  scene  of  danger 
and  deliverance,  so  that  his  listeners  might  be  said 
to  live  it  with  him  over  again. 

Mrs  Purcell,  coming  in  with  flushed  cheeks  from 
the  kitchen,  paused  at  the  parlour  door  at  a  sign 
from  her  husband,  fearing  lest  the  narrative  should 
be  in  any  way  interrupted. 

As  far  as  I  can  recall  it,  Mr  Gostling's  story  shall 
be  written  here. 

'You  may  picture  to  yourself,  good  Master  Pur- 
cell,' he  said,  'how  flattered  I  felt  when  His  Majesty 
ordered  me  to  make  one  of  a  party  to  sail  down  the 
river  and  round  the  Kentish  coast  in  the  yacht  Fubbs? 

'  His  Majesty  knew  what  good  company  he  would 
have  with  you  aboard,'  Mr  Purcell  said;  'but  pro- 
ceed— so  much  I  have  heard  before.' 

'  However  that    may  be,   we   were   full   of   mirth 


WESTMINSTER  ABBEY  25 

and  jollity  at  our  start.  His  Majesty  was  at  his 
wittiest,  and  he  made  much  fun  out  of  the  name  of 
his  yacht.  It  is  said  Her  chubby  Grace  of  Portsmouth 
was  not  so  well  pleased  to  know  the  round-bowed 
yacht  bore  the  soubriquet  which  His  Majesty  gives 
her — but  that  by  the  way.  The  Duke  of  York  was 
aboard,  and  when  we  made  the  North  Foreland,  his 
eye,  well  accustomed  to  watch  wind  and  weather 
descried  an  ominous  cloud  coming  up  on  the  wind. 
The  Duke  gave  a  warning  that  it  was  safer  to  tack, 
if  by  good  luck  we  could  enter  the  river's  mouth 
again  ;  but  the  King  laughed  and  said  he  liked  a 
good  tossing,  even  if  he  were  sick,  for  it  was  bound 
to  be  a  benefit  to  his  stomach,  which  had  been  ill  at 
ease  of  late.  So,  disregarding  the  Duke's  warning, 
the  yacht  rode  on  right  into  the  teeth  of  the  storm. 
Ah !  my  friend,'  Mr  Gostling  said,  '  many  a  time 
and  oft  have  I  chanted  the  words  of  which,  till  that 
dread  moment,  I  never  knew  the  meaning — "  Verily, 
they  that  go  down  to  the  sea  in  ships  see  the  works 
of  the  Lord,  and  His  wonders  in  the  deep."  Ere 
we  could  grasp  our  danger,  ere  we  could  prepare 
our  souls  for  the  coming  death,  which  seemed  in- 
evitable, the  stormy  wind  rose  and  the  great  waves 
lifted  up  their  voices.  We  were,  in  truth,  carried 
up  to  the  black  heavens  and  down  again  into  the 
still  blacker  abyss  yawning  below.  Verily  our  soul 


26  IN  THE  CHOIR  OF 

melted  away  for  very  trouble,  and  we  staggered 
about  the  deck  as  if  drunken.  We  were  at  our 
wits'  end.  His  Majesty  did  not  cry  out  as  many 
of  the  crew  did,  nor  lose  his  cool  bearing,  though 
his  face  may  have  been  paler  than  its  wont.  But 
words  fail  me  to  tell  you  how  the  two  brothers — the 
King  and  the  Duke — worked  bravely  as  common  sea- 
men and  did  their  utmost  to  save  the  lives  aboard  the 
Fubbs.  The  Duke  of  York  had  a  marvellous  courage 
in  a  strait  like  that  in  which  we  found  ourselves — a 
marvellous  physical  courage  ;  but,  alas  !  he  has  not 
the  courage  which  will  stand  him  in  good  stead  if  he 
comes  to  the  crown — but  this  by  the  way.  Let  me 
tell  you,  Henry  Purcell,  that  nought  will  ever  wipe 
away  from  my  mind  the  distress  and  well-nigh 
despair  which  seized  me  in  the  midst  of  those 
stormy  waves ;  the  masts  creaking,  the  great  waters 
rushing  over  our  craft,  the  wind  howling,  and  the 
cry  for  help  rising  with  it  from  many  of  us  dis- 
traught with  fear.'  Mr  Gostling  paused,  and  then 
added, — 

'There,  my  good  friend,  take  that  psalm  for 
your  text,  and  render  it  into  music  with  the  calm 
and  peace  of  the  words  which  follow  — "  For 
He  maketh  the  storm  to  cease,  so  that  the 
waves  thereof  are  still."  Ah,  we  knew  the  gladness 
which  followed  when  we  were  brought  safely  into 


WESTMINSTER  ABBEY  27 

the  haven.  Surely  we  should  never  cease  to  praise 
the  Lord  for  His  goodness.' 

Mr  Purcell  did  not  speak,  and  we  all  obeyed 
Mrs  Purcell's  summons  to  supper.  And  here  my 
memory  of  that  first  evening  fails. 

I  believe  I  fell  from  my  bench  at  supper  in  a 
swoon,  for  I  recall  nothing  more  till  I  came  to  con- 
sciousness in  a  little  room  at  the  top  of  the  house 
in  a  garret  no  bigger  than  my  own  at  the  Ivy 
Farm. 

I  heard  Mrs  Purcell  say, — 

'You  are  better  now,  and  must  drink  this  nice 
posset' 

I  obeyed,  and  then  slept  till  the  sun  was  peeping 
in  at  the  narrow  lattice.  I  heard  the  Abbey  chimes, 
and  from  below  came  the  sound  of  a  deep  bass 
voice,  while  the  harpsichord  was  played  to  accom- 
pany it,  and  I  knew  it  was  Mr  Gostling  singing 
the  words  of  the  psalm  which  he  had  bid  Mr  Pur- 
cell to  take  for  the  text  of  his  anthem. 

Those  first  few  hours  in  Westminster  were  memor- 
able hours  to  me.  It  would  be  hard  to  express,  if  I 
tried  to  do  so,  what  it  was  to  me  to  enter  the  choir 
of  Westminster  Abbey  for  the  first  time. 

I  had  done  my  best  to  learn  what  duties  were 
expected  of  me,  and  I  found  it  pleasant  to  be 
instructed  in  them  by  the  gentle  voice  of  Mrs 


28  IN  THE  CHOIR  OF 

Purcell.  It  was,  as  Mr  Gostling  said,  music,  music 
everywhere. 

'  You  will  like  to  hear  evensong  in  the  Abbey,'  Mrs 
Purcell  said.  'You  can  enter  the  cloister  and  so 
find  your  way  into  the  choir,  and  Mr  Purcell  will 
be  at  the  organ.  I  have  to  spare  my  strength; 
with  so  many  household  cares,  and  the  assistance 
I  give  my  husband  by  making,  often  many  times, 
new  copies  of  his  scores  with  his  corrections.' 

'  I  would  fain  be  of  use,'  I  said, '  nor  leave  you  to 
go  to  the  Abbey  if  you  need  me.' 

'  Oh,  I  do  not  choose  to  make  you  my  slave,  child ; 
to  speak  the  truth,  since  I  lost  my  babe,  my  little 
John  Baptiste,  I  have  wanted  a  friend — a  companion 
— and  I  think  I  shall  find  her  in  you.' 

These  words  thrilled  my  heart  with  gladness. 

'  I  know,'  Mrs  Purcell  said,  '  your  mother  was  of 
gentle  birth,  and  well  known  to  our  good  Master 
Gostling.  Thus  I  do  not  look  on  you  as  a  servant, 
but,  as  I  said,  a  friend.' 

Then  Mrs  Purcell  stooped  and  kissed  me,  and  bid 
me  get  my  hood  and  cloak,  and  she  would  show 
me  from  the  doorstep  the  cloister  entrance. 

I  did  as  I  was  bid,  and  ran  with  a  lighter  heart 
than  I  had  felt  for  some  days  to  the  cloister. 

The  organ  was  pealing  forth  as  I  went  in ;  a 
man  wearing  a  black  gown  and  with  a  silver  rod 


WESTMINSTER  ABBEY  29 

in  his  hand  told  me  to  go  back  to  the  nave  in  a 
stern  voice. 

'What  do  ye  mean  galloping  into  the  Abbey  as 
if  you  was  mad  ? ' 

I  did  not  care.  I  did  not  answer.  I  was  as  well 
pleased  to  be  in  the  nave  as  in  the  choir.  I  knelt 
down  on  the  stone  paving,  and  was  spellbound. 

The  voices  of  the  choristers,  the  roll  of  the  organ, 
the  arches  springing  skyward,  overwhelmed  me.  Let 
those  who  come  after  me,  and  read  my  story,  bear  in 
mind  that  I  was,  for  the  first  time  in  my  short  life, 
under  the  power — the  mysterious  power — of  music 
as  it  ascended  to  the  vaulted  roof  overhead,  to  the 
heights  of  Heaven. 

Bear  in  mind  I  had  within  something  which  the 
music  called  to  life,  something  which  had  faintly 
answered  to  the  call  of  Nature's  music,  as  I 
had  told  Mr  Gostling — the  whispering  wind,  the 
rippling  water,  the  song  of  birds.  But  now  there 
was  melody  in  my  heart,  a  joy  as  of  a  treasure 
discovered,  a  sense  of  oneness  with  the  grandeur 
and  the  glory  above  me  and  around  me. 

It  was  but  few  words  I  caught  when  the  voices 
were  in  full  chorus,  but  when  a  boy's  voice  sounded 
alone  I  could  distinguish  them. 

'  He  hath  put  down  the  mighty  from  their  seat, 
and  hath  exalted  the  humble  and  meek.' 


30  IN  THE  CHOIR  OF 

But  the  bursts  of  joyful  praise  in  the  Gloria  moved 
me,  though  not  by  any  words,  for  I  but  dimly  under- 
stood them  or  even  heard  them. 

I  knelt  on — unconscious  of  eyes  which  were  upon 
me — never  moving  till  the  last  note  of  the  organ 
had  died  away.  Then,  looking  round,  I  saw  the 
few  worshippers  straggling  out  of  the  Abbey — talk- 
ing, laughing,  and  with  scant  reverence  for  the  place. 
I  must  needs  follow,  and,  rising,  I  saw  a  lady  stand- 
ing by  me. 

She  was  tall,  and  at  a  glance  I  could  discern  that 
she  was  someone  of  consequence. 

A  pair  of  liquid  brown  eyes,  shaded  by  thick,  curled 
lashes,  sought  mine,  and  she  said, — 

'  You  are,  methinks,  a  stranger  here,  alone  in  this 
big  city.' 

'  No/  I  answered.  '  No,  madam — that  is,  I  have 
come  to  live  with  Mistress  Purcell.' 

'  Ah !  then  you  are  safe,'  the  lady  said.  '  Master 
Purcell  is  my  friend.  Come  to  the  door  with  me — 
I  see  the  vergers  wait  to  close  it — and  I  will  walk 
to  Dean's  Yard  with  you.' 

The  lady  moved  with  such  wondrous  grace,  her 
footfall  scarce  heard  on  the  pavement,  while  my 
heavy,  country- made  shoes  clicked  and  clattered  by 
her  side.  At  the  door  a  chair  waited,  with  lac- 
queys in  attendance. 


THE  WEST  FRONT  OF  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY,  IN  THE 
SEVENTEENTH  CENTURY. 


WESTMINSTER  ABBEY  31 

'Follow  me,'  the  lady  said,  'to  Master  Purcell's 
house.  It  suits  me  to  walk  thither  with  this  young 
gentlewoman.' 

Then  two  gentlemen  with  flowing  curls  and,  as  it 
seemed  to  me,  all  velvet,  satin  and  lace,  came  forward, 
bowing  low,  their  caps,  with  long  feathers  falling  from 
them,  in  their  hands. 

'  Fair  lady,'  one  began,  '  permit  us  to  escort  you,  if 
indeed  you  venture  to  discard  your  chair.' 

The  lady  curtseyed,  and  then,  with  a  lofty  inclina- 
tion of  her  head,  said, — 

'  I  thank  you,  Master  Mountfort,  for  your  politeness, 
but  I  decline  the  honour  you  would  do  me.' 

'  Nay,  be  not  so  cruel,'  the  second  gentleman  said. 
'  We  shall  do  well  to  guard  you  from  the  too  bold  gaze 
of  those  you  may  meet.  We  will  take  no  refusal.' 

'  Hold  !  nor  pester  the  fair  lady  with  unwished-for 
attentions ; '  and  the  gentleman  the  lady  had  called 
Mr  Mountfort  put  his  arm  in  that  of  his  companion 
and  drew  him  away. 

We  were  soon  in  Dean's  Yard,  and  here  we  met 
Mr  Purcell  with  a  roll  of  music  under  his  arm. 

*  Good  even  to  you,  Master  Purcell.  I  found  this 
little  maiden  kneeling  in  the  Abbey,  wrapt  around 
with  your  music,  and  I  have  brought  her  hither.' 

'  You  are  ever  thoughtful  for  others,  madam.  This 
young  gentlewoman  is  a  protegee  of  our  good  friend 


32  IN  THE  CHOIR  OF 

Master  Gostling,  and  he  brought  her  to  our  house 
yester  evening.  Honour  us  by  coming  in,  and  I  will 
show  you  a  new  song  I  have  been  writing.' 

'  Nay,'  the  lady  said,  '  I  must  to  my  chair  now  I 
have  seen  this  child — for,  sure,  she  is  but  a  child — 
safe  in  your  care.  Adieu  !  adieu ! '  and  smiling  on  me 
with  enchanting  sweetness,  the  lady  stepped  into  her 
chair  and  was  soon  borne  out  of  sight 

'  How  beautiful  she  is ! '  I  said. 

'Ay!  beautiful  and  good,'  Mr  Purcell  said.  'She 
calls  you  a  child ;  she  is  scarce  more  herself.  She 
has  not  reached  her  twenty-first  year.' 

'  Is  she  a  very  grand  lady  ? '  I  asked.  '  A  duchess 
or  princess  ? ' 

Mr  Purcell  laughed. 

'  She  is  a  queen  in  her  own  realm,  for  she  is  turning 
the  heads  of  many  in  the  town.  She  is  Mistress 
Bracegirdle,  the  budding  actress.  You  shall  see 
her  act,  and  then  you  will  know  what  she  is.' 

A  new  life  now  opened  for  me.  I  soon  found 
strange  things  grew  familiar,  and  that  I  was  part 
and  parcel  of  Mr  Purcell's  household. 

The  year  of  my  taking  up  my  abode  in  Dean's 
Yard  was  marked  by  an  event  of  great  moment 
to  the  world  of  music  in  which  I  now  found  my- 
self. 


WESTMINSTER  ABBEY  33 

This  event  was  the  erecting  in  the  Temple 
Church  of  two  organs  for  the  choice  of  the 
Benchers  of  the  Temple.  I  was  busy  at  the 
desk,  where  I  was  making  a  copy  of  '  Saint  Cecilia,' 
an  ode  lately  composed  by  my  master,  when  Mr 
Smith  entered  the  room  hurriedly. 

'  Where  is  the  master,  child  ?  '  he  asked — '  Master 
Purcell.  What  are  you  about — eh  ?  ' 

'I  am  learning,  sir,  to  copy  music  for  the  help 
of  Master  Purcell^who  is  so  good  as  to  bear  with 
my  errors,  and  is  patient  in  teaching  me.' 

'  Ah !  he  is  one  of  the  wonders  of  our  time.  I 
am  come  to  tell  him  that  all  is  ready  for  the  trial 
of  my  organ  and  that  of  Harris  on  the  morrow.  I 
am  not  afraid  of  my  triumph,  because  I  know  full 
well  that  Dr  Blow  and  Master  Purcell  will  bring 
forth  all  that  is  best  in  my  organ,  despite  the  fact 
that  Baptist  Draghi  will  do  his  utmost  for  Harris; 
but  he  has  no  quarter  tones,  and  herein  lies  my 
advantage.  Master  Purcell  knows  what  these 
quarter  tones  mean.' 

If  Mr  Purcell  knew,  I  did  not ;  and  while  Mr 
Smith  proceeded  to  tell  of  the  pains  and  labour 
he  had  used  to  achieve  the  result  of  which  he  was 
so  proud,  I  sat  with  my  quill  in  my  hand,  listen- 
ing, but  not  understanding.  Presently  Mr  Purcell 
came  in,  and  then  the  two  friends  left  me  to  my 

C 


34  AV  THE  CHOIR  OF 

work,  which  I  followed  with  all  the  perseverance 
I  could  summon,  but  often  I  was  sorely  puzzled 
how  to  mark  the  semiquavers,  with  their  long  tails 
and  small  heads,  and  to  copy  all  the  signs  aright 

Mrs  Purcell  was  absent  on  this  afternoon,  and  I 
was  again  interrupted  in  my  work  by  the  entrance 
of  a  young  gentlewoman,  who  threw  herself  down 
on  the  settle,  and  said, — 

'  I've  come  for  another  order  for  the  Temple 
Church  on  the  morrow.  Where  is  Master  Purcell  ? 
I  am  set  on  getting  there,  and  my  uncle  is  perverse. 
Saith  he,  "You  do  not  care  for  music,  nor  know 
one  air  from  another."  What  does  that  matter?  I 
like  the  fun  of  a  crowd,  and  there  are  folks  in  the 
Temple  I  want  to  see.  Perhaps  I  should  say  who 
I  am.  You  look  dazed,  and  I  fain  hope  you  will 
know  me  next  time  we  meet.  Your  big  eyes  have 
scanned  me  pretty  closely.'  A  laugh  followed  this 
speech  and  I  felt  the  colour  rush  to  my  face. 
'  That  blush  is  becoming.  Your  cheeks  are  too 
pale,  child.  Now,  you  are  dying  to  know  who  I 
can  be?  I  am  Adelicia  Crespion — at  your  service 
— step-niece  of  the  Chanter,  his  reverence  Stephen 
Crespion.  He  is  a  monstrous  strict  personage,  and, 
I  dare  to  say,  he  would  gladly  be  rid  of  me.  So 
he  will  be  when  I  marry — and  I  mean  to  marry — 
only  I  must  get  a  rich  suitor,  for  I  hate  mean, 


WESTMINSTER  ABBEY  35 

sordid  ways.  Now,  who  are  you?  You  look  a 
prim  little  thing,  and  might  smarten  your  dress 
with  advantage.' 

I  felt  this  to  be  very  impertinent,  and  I  said, 
with  all  the  dignity  I  could  command,  which  was 
not  much, — 

'My  name  is  Elizabeth  Lockwood,  and  I  have 
work  to  do  for  Master  Purcell,  so  may  it  please 
you  to  suffer  me  to  proceed  with  it.' 

Again  a  rippling  laugh. 

'You  are  a  little  oddity,  but  I  like  you.  You 
make  a  variety  to  the  dressed-up,  painted  minxes 
who  turn  up  their  noses  at  me.  I  have  no  especial 
friend  in  Dean's  Yard.  I  was  brought  up  in  a 
convent  in  France,  and  I  have  only  lately  come 
to  my  uncle,  Stephen  Crespion.  My  father  was 
his  half-brother,  and  he  has  taken  pity  on  me,  and 
has  given  me  a  home.  Pity !  How  I  detest  pity 
— don't  you  ?  Is  it  pity  that  made  Mistress  Purcell 
take  you  in? — if  so,  we  are  in  the  same  plight 
and  ought  to  be  friends.  Have  you  a  father  and 
mother  ? ' 

'  No,'  I  said  shortly. 

'An  orphan,  like  me.  But  I  am  supposed  to  be 
a  Catholic,  like  my  poor  mother.  To  speak  the 
truth,  I  am  nothing.  It's  no  odds  to  me  what 
religion  I  profess.  The  old  nuns  wanted  me  to 


36  IN  THE  CHOIR  OF 

stay  in  the  convent  and  take  the  veil.  Catch  me ! 
I  wouldn't  be  like  them  for  all  the  world.  Poor 
souls !  Shut  out  of  the  world  for  ever — dull  old 
frights !  No ;  they  weren't  all  frights.  One  was 
a  beauty,  with  such  a  story.  No  one  knew  what 
it  was  but  me.  If  the  dear  old  sisters  had  known, 
they  would  have  died  of  it,  I  verily  believe. 
There,  now  I  have  said  enough  for  one  day,  but 
I  intend  to  see  you  often,  whether  you  like 
me  or  not.  Heigh-ho !  I  wish  Master  Purcell  would 
come.' 

'  He  went  out  with  a  gentleman,  the  gentle- 
man who  has  built  one  of  the  organs  for  the 
Temple  Church.'  How  I  wished  my  new  ac- 
quaintance would  depart!  So  I  said,  'Will  you 
please  to  leave  a  message  with  me,  and  I  will 
deliver  it' 

'  No,  I  do  not  please,'  was  the  reply.  '  I  can  get 
most  things  I  want,  and  I'll  get  leave  to  sit  in  a 
good  place  at  the  Temple  to-morrow.  I'll  coax 
Master  Purcell  till  I  get  it.' 

It  amazed  me  to  see,  when  at  last  Mr  Purcell 
returned,  how  Mistress  Crespion  succeeded  in  get- 
ting her  way. 

Adelicia  Crespion  had  an  attraction  for  gentlemen 
that  none  could  deny.  She  could  flatter,  and  coax, 
and  find  favour  as  a  plain,  unpretending  woman 


WESTMINSTER  ABBEY  37 

could  not.  So,  when  Mr  Purcell  shook  his  head, 
saying,— 

'  Every  place  in  the  church  is  filled.  I  doubt, 
madam,  that  it  is  impossible  to  grant  your 
request.' 

{  No,  no,  it  is  not  impossible,  dear  Master  Purcell. 
You  won't  deny  me  the  delight  of  hearing  you  bring 
out  divine  sounds  from  the  organ.  You  are  certain 
to  win  the  day.  My  uncle  says  he  is  sure  of  it  I 
must  hear  you ;  I  must  share  your  triumph.  I  will 
sit — or  stand — in  the  loft.  I  will  not  incommode  you. 
I  will  be  as  prim  and  quiet  as  this  child  who  is 
watching  me  with  her  big  eyes.  Ah !  you  can't  say 
me  nay.  I  will  be  here  early,  and  we  will  start  for 
the  Temple  together.  Here  is  dear  Mistress  Purcell,' 
Adelicia  said,  springing  to  meet  her  and  kissing  her 
on  both  cheeks.  'I  am  to  hear  Master  Purcell's 
triumph  to-morrow.  He  has  given  me  permission 
to  sit  in  the  organ  gallery.  Isn't  it  good  and 
charming  of  him?  There,  I'll  give  you  another 
kiss,  and  you  must  give  it  to  him.  Adieu !  adieu  ! 
Au  revoir  !  mille  remerciments  !' 

'  Hold  !  hold  !  Mistress  Crespion.  Stop  !  I  have 
made  no  promise,'  Mr  Purcell  cried. 

'  Oh,  yes,  you  have.  Silence  means  consent,'  she 
said,  kissing  her  hand  as  she  flitted  across  Dean's 
Yard  to  the  Chanter's  house. 


38  IN  THE  CHOIR  OF 

'  What  a  lovely  creature  she  is  ! '  Mr  Purcell  said. 
1  It  is  hard  to  deny  her  aught.' 

'  Nay,  I  will  not  call  her  lovely,'  Mrs  Purcell  said. 
'  I  will  allow  Mistress  Bracegirdle  is  lovely,  but  not 
Adelicia.' 

'Thou  art  lovelier  than  either  in  thy  husband's 
eyes,'  Mr  Purcell  said,  and  then,  with  a  kiss,  he  left 
us  to  repair  to  the  Temple  for  a  last  rehearsal. 

The  trial  of  the  two  organs  brought  together  a 
vast  number  of  people,  and  it  was  indeed  impossible, 
long  before  the  appointed  hour,  to  find  standing- 
room,  so  great  was  the  crowd  in  the  Temple 
Church. 

Adelicia  insisted  on  joining  company  with  me  and 
Mrs  Purcell,  and  as  we  were  led  through  the  throng 
by  one  of  the  choristers  from  the  Abbey,  I  heard 
him  say  to  Mrs  Purcell, — 

'  I  have  only  an  order  for  the  placing  of  two  in 
the  gallery.' 

And  here  Adelicia  pushed  past  me,  and  so  thick 
was  the  crowd  that  I  was  separated  from  my 
companions. 

I  was  jostled  and  crushed,  and  my  hood  torn  from 
my  head.  I  was  frightened,  and  tried  to  make  my 
way  back  and  get  out  of  the  church. 

At  last  I  found  refuge  on  the  monument  of  one  of 


WESTMINSTER  ABBEY  39 

the  knights,  and  so  got  out  of  the  press  for  a  few 
minutes.  Only  for  a  few  minutes.  I  was  roughly 
pulled  from  my  position,  and  so  was  another  gentle- 
woman who  had  climbed  on  the  crossed  legs  of  the 
crusader. 

'It  is  forbidden  by  the  Master  to  climb  on  the 
monuments.  You  ought  to  know  better/  said  a 
rough  voice. 

At  this  moment  a  gentleman  came  through  the 
crowd,  way  being  made  for  him.  I  was  ready  to 
cry  with  heat  and  vexation,  especially  as,  looking 
up  to  the  gallery,  I  saw  Adelicia  Crespion  wield- 
ing a  large  fan,  with  the  self-important  air  which 
seemed  to  say  she  had,  as  usual,  got  her  own  way. 
Yes,  by  ousting  me,  for  I  knew  Mrs  Purcell  would 
have  desired  me  to  be  near  her.  This  gentleman, 
who  now  came  close  to  me,  looking  at  me,  said, — 

*  I  will  help  you  to  a  seat  if  you  will  come  with 
me,'  and  taking  my  hand  as  he  would  have  taken 
the  hand  of  a  child,  he  drew  me  along  with  him, 
and  in  a  few  minutes  I  found  myself  above  the 
crowd  on  a  raised  bench  by  the  wall,  beneath  me 
rows  of  the  gentlemen  of  the  Temple,  who  were 
assembled  at  this  trial  of  the  two  organs. 

When  I  had  recovered  myself,  and  settled  my  dis- 
ordered kerchief  and  rebellious  hair,  which  would  make 
my  hood  fall  back,  I  had  time  to  look  round  me,  and 


40  IN  THE  CHOIR  OF 

recognised  in  the  gentleman  who  had  befriended  me 
one  of  those  who  had  met  Mrs  Bracegirdle  at  the 
Abbey  door.  He  had  a  most  pleasant  voice,  and 
he  kindly  said, — 

'You  belong  to  Mistress  PurcelFs  household,  I 
think  ? ' 

'  Yes,  sir ;  I  was  separated  from  her  in  the  crowd, 
and  another  has  taken  my  place  yonder  by  her 
side.' 

The  gentleman  smiled,  as,  looking  up  to  the 
gallery,  he  saw  Adelicia  fanning  herself  and  coquet- 
ting with  a  gentleman  who  was  leaning  over  her. 

'  Ah !  I  see  ;  it  is  the  niece  of  the  Chanter  of  the 
Abbey,  a  young  gentlewoman  who  thinks  first  of 
herself  and  next  of  other  people.  Now,'  he  said, 
'  I  must  leave  you  here,  for  a  friend  yonder  is 
beckoning  me  to  join  him.  He  is  one  of  the  um- 
pires who  is  to  decide  the  question  as  to  which  organ 
is  best  suited  for  the  church.  My  name  is  William 
Mountfort,  and  that  gentleman  who  is  impatient  for 
me  to  join  him  is  no  less  a  person  than  the  Lord 
Chief-Justice  Jeffreys.  When  the  affair  is  over  I 
will  return  and  conduct  you  to  the  house  of  Master 
Purcell,  a  man  I  am  proud  to  call  my  friend.  You 
are  not  afraid  to  be  left  here?' 

I  was  afraid,  but  anyhow  it  was  better  than  being 
jostled  in  the  crowd,  and  I  was  seated  next  an  old 


WESTMINSTER  ABBEY  41 

gentlewoman,  who  occupied  the  second  seat  on  the 
narrow  bench,  which  only  had  room  for  two. 

Mr  Mountfort  leaned  over  me  and  said, — 

'This  young  gentlewoman  will  be  glad  of  your 
protection,  madam,  till  my  return.  She  has  missed 
her  friends  in  the  throng  and  is  alone.' 

A  grunt  and  a  nod  was  all  the  answer  vouchsafed, 
and  as  Mr  Mountfort  left  us  she  said,  giving  me  a 
nudge  with  her  elbow, — 

'Don't  squeeze  me,  child.  Keep  to  your  own 
place.  My  back  is  fit  to  break  as  it  is,  perched  up 
here,  and  I  am  like  to  swoon  with  the  heat,  and 
mind  you  don't  fidget,'  for  I  was  obliged  to  steady 
myself  by  putting  the  point  of  my  toes  against 
the  back  of  the  bench  before  us,  and  even  then  I 
could  hardly  keep  my  balance. 

But  with  the  first  swell  of  the  organ  a  hush  fell 
over  the  assembly,  and  I  became  unmindful  of  my 
uneasy  position,  of  my  disagreeable  neighbour,  who 
puffed  and  grumbled  and  nudged  me  continually, 
with  a  whispered  command  to  keep  my  distance. 
The  organ  built  by  Mr  Harris  was  heard  first,  and 
murmurs  of  applause  followed  each  performance  of 
music  that  had  no  name  for  me,  but  thrilled  me 
to  my  soul  with  that  nameless  power  of  which  I 
have  spoken. 

There  was  a  pause  between  the  two  performances. 


42  IN  THE  CHOIR  OF 

There  was  a  movement  amongst  the  rows  of  be- 
wigged  heads  below  me.  Many  of  the  Benchers 
straggled  out  to  stretch  their  legs  and  doubtless 
get  refreshment,  while  my  neighbour  drank  out  of 
a  vial  something  which  had  a  strong  smell,  and 
munched  a  large  cake  till  not  a  crumb  was  left. 
Then  she  settled  herself  to  a  nap,  her  head  bent 
on  her  breast,  snoring  loud  and  as  if  she  were 
choking,  and  making  a  horrid  gurgling  in  her 
throat. 

When  the  first  notes  of  the  other  organ  sounded 
she  woke  with  a  start,  and  her  face  as  red  as  the 
turkey's  comb  in  the  yard  at  the  farm.  I  wondered 
what  had  brought  this  fat  gentlewoman  to  hear  the 
music,  for  I  do  not  think  it  was  anything  to  her 
beyond  noise.  I  did  not  know  then,  as  I  know 
now,  that  fashion  leads  the  way  to  performances 
of  music,  the  theatres,  and  to  other  exhibitions. 
Hundreds  of  people,  whose  ears  are  deaf  to  the 
voice  of  the  charmer,  will  rush  in  crowds,  as  on  this 
day,  to  hear  music  which  is  to  them  nought  but 
sound,  stirring  within  them  neither  feeling  nor 
delight.  The  touch  of  my  master,  as  I  now  love 
to  call  Mr  Purcell,  brought  out  the  full  beauty  and 
capabilities  of  Mr  Smith's  organ. 

I  was,  as  I  have  said,  ignorant  at  this  time  of 
musical  terms,  and  knew  naught  of  quarter  notes 


WESTMINSTER  ABBEY  43 

or  the  facilities  these  gave  for  modulating  into  re- 
mote keys.  Yet  I  felt  there  was  a  difference  be- 
tween the  music  and  harmony  brought  out  by  Dr 
Blow  and  by  Mr  Purcell,  and  that  which  had  pre- 
ceded it  on  the  other  organ. 

When  all  was  over  I  waited  as  I  had  been  bid 
till  Mr  Mountfort  came  for  me.  This  gave  me  time 
to  watch  the  dispersing  crowd. 

Many  of  the  gentry  and  nobility  were  present, 
and  I  saw  for  the  first  time  the  gay  dames  and 
attendant  cavaliers  passing  before  me. 

The  ladies  amazed  me,  with  their  high  colour 
and  little  black  patches  cut  in  varied  forms  on  their 
chin  and  cheeks.  In  my  ignorance  I  thought  it 
strange  so  many  had  pimples  or  scratches  to  hide, 
and  strange,  too,  that  these  town  gentlewomen 
should  have  such  rosy  cheeks. 

I  had  to  learn  that  the  roses  were  produced 
by  paint,  and  the  little  black  patches  were  put  to 
show  off  the  pearly  whiteness  of  the  skin,  due  to 
powder. 

How  ignorant  I  was !  and  yet  by  the  reading 
of  Shakespeare's  plays  and  other  books,  lent  to  me 
by  Edmund  Pelham,  I  knew  full  well  that  the  story 
of  love  made  the  sum  of  life  to  high  and  low,  rich 
and  poor. 

Was  it  to  be  the  sum  of  life  .to  me?     Edmund 


44  IN  THE  CHOIR  OF 

Pelham's  words  had  stirred  in  me  a  response  to 
his  love,  and  mine  for  him  fluttered  in  my  breast 
as  a  bird  flutters  in  its  nest  when  the  first  rays  of 
the  spring  sunshine  pierce  the  branches  of  the  tree 
where  it  is  built,  awakening  it  to  life — yes,  and 
to  sing  the  sweetest  song  of  dawning  joy  and 
hope. 

I  do  not  think  I  had  cause  to  sing  that  song 
at  this  time.  It  was  more  a  consciousness  that  in 
a  crowd  such  as  that  where  I  had  found  myself 
that  day,  there  was  one  absent,  yet  present  to  me, 
who  would  have  been  angry  to  see  me  left  alone 
to  struggle  with  roughness  and  uncivil  pushing 
and  jostling,  by  Adelicia's  means.  I  was  too  much 
given  to  think  about  myself,  and  all  my  longings 
unsatisfied  and  hopes  unfulfilled.  Thus  it  was  good 
for  me  that  I  was  now  to  live  with  people  like 
Mr  and  Mrs  Purcell,  and  that  service  for  them 
became  heart  service,  which  I  never  could  have 
given  to  the  harsh  and  tyrannical  woman  who  had 
robbed  me  first  of  my  father's  love  and  then  of 
my  birthright.  For  Edmund  Pelham  spoke  truly 
when  he  said  I  had  more  right  to  the  proceeds 
of  Ivy  Farm  and  the  savings  which  my  father  had 
left  behind  him  than  the  children  of  a  former 
husband  of  my  stepmother. 

When  the  church  was  nearly  cleared  and  I  began 


WESTMINSTER  ABBEY  45 

to   think   Mr   Mountfort   had   forgotten    me,  I  saw 
him  coming  towards  me  with  another  gentleman. 

My  stout  neighbour  on  the  narrow  bench  had 
long  since  taken  her  departure,  and  Mr  Mountfort 
said, — 

'  I  crave  pardon  for  leaving  you  so  long,  but  I  have 
forgotten  everything  in  listening  for  the  decision  of 
those  who  are  competent  to  judge  which  organ  is 
the  better.  Now,  if  you  please,  I  will  conduct  you 
to  Dean's  Yard,  and  as  it  does  not  lie  far  out  of 
his  way,  my  friend,  the  Judge,  will  accompany  us.' 

'No,  no,  not  to  Purcell's  house,  Mountfort.  The 
decision  is  not  yet  made,  and  I  shall  have  madam's 
beseeching  eyes  turned  on  me,'  was  the  answer. 
'  I  am  only  one  of  a  number,  and  we  shall  agree 
by  majority  of  votes.' 

'There  is  not  much  doubt  which  organ  gains 
the  palm,  or  which  hand  was  the  most  skilled  to 
draw  forth  the  melody.' 

'  Tut,  tut,  Mountfort,  you  must  not  tempt  me 
to  divulge  what  I  think.  This  child,'  turning  upon 
me  a  pair  of  the  sharpest  eyes,  which  glittered 
under  heavy  brows,  'this  child  has  music  in  her, 
or  I'm  mistaken.  A  pupil  of  Purcell's,  is  she?' 

'Not  at  present,  but  I  plead  ignorance  even  of 
her  name,'  Mr  Mountfort  said. 

A   knight  -  errant,  eh,  Mountfort?     It  suits  you 


46  IN  THE  CHOIR  OF 

well,  whether  on  the  stage  or  off  it.  Have  a  care! 
have  a  care!  There's  a  pair  of  lovely  eyes  casting 
a  spell  over  you,  or  I'm  mistaken.  Don't  blush 
like  a  damask  rose,  child,'  the  Judge  said,  turning 
sharply  on  me  as  he  parted  from  us.  '  The  eyes  I 
mean  are  not  yours,  though,  in  good  sooth,  yours 
are  like  to  work  mischief.' 

'  That  is  Judge  Jeffreys/  Mr  Mountfort  said ;  '  a 
good  friend  of  mine,  with  more  wits  in  his  little 
finger  than  most  of  us  have  in  our  whole  bodies. 
He  is  somewhat  pitiless  in  his  judgments  of  other 
poor  mortals,  and  makes  enemies  as  well  as  friends.' 

Mr  Mountfort  left  me  at  the  door  of  Mr  Purcell's 
house,  saying  he  had  a  rehearsal  for  that  night's 
play,  which  must  not  be  neglected. 

He  made  me  a  low  bow,  treating  me,  even  me, 
with  as  much  respect  and  courtesy  as  he  had  treated 
the  beautiful  lady  at  the  door  of  Westminster  Abbey, 

'William  Mountfort,  madam,  asks  by  what  name 
he  is  to  remember  you.' 

'Betty  Lockwood,  sir,  who  thanks  you  for  your 
goodness  to  her,  which  she  will  never  forget.' 

'  A  slight  service  to  win  me  such  a  meed  of 
praise,'  was  the  answer,  as  Mr  Mountfort  turned 
and  left  me. 

I  found  Mrs  Purcell  lying  on  the  settle,  propped 
up  by  cushions.  She  looked  exhausted,  and  said, — 


WESTMINSTER  ABBEY  47 

'  I  am  thankful  you  have  come,  Betty.  You  must 
prepare  supper  and  make  Henry  a  pasty — take  care 
not  to  burn  it,  and  see  the  sage  and  onions  are 
chopped  fine.  All  is  put  ready  to  your  hand.  Why 
did  you  leave  me  ?  I  was  so  weary  with  Adelicia 
and  her  coquetting  and  folly.  You  should  not  have 
left  me.' 

'  I  could  not  avoid  it,  madam,'  I  said,  feeling  ready 
to  cry.  '  I  was  so  pushed  and  jostled,  and — ' 

'  Well,  well,  go  to  the  kitchen  and  do  your  best, 
and  I  will  try  to  sleep.  We  do  not  know  yet  which 
organ  will  be  chosen.  Never  did  Henry  play  more 
divinely.  His  name  and  fame  are  dear  to  me — you 
will  know  how  dear  when  you  have  a  husband  to 
be  proud  of.  I  heard  voices  at  the  door.  Who 
was  it  ? ' 

'  Master  Mountfort,'  I  said,  and  I  felt  the  hot  colour 
rise  to  my  face. 

'  Ah !  he  is  a  young  actor  of  great  promise ;  he 
adores  Mistress  Bracegirdle,  and  she  has  many  at 
her  feet — some  who  owe  him  a  grudge  for  the  favour 
she  shows  him.  I  hope  no  ill  will  come  of  it' 

I  left  Mrs  Purcell  to  do  my  duty  in  the 
kitchen,  and  having  had  nothing  since  I  broke  my 
fast,  I  was  very  glad  to  eat  a  manchet  of  dry 
bread  and  take  a  sup  of  beer. 

I  found  myself  singing  as  I  worked,  chopping  the 


48  IN  THE  CHOIR  OF 

herbs  to  the  tune  of  a  Toccata  of  my  master's,  and 
catching,  it  may  be,  the  air  imperfectly.  Presently 
Mr  Purcell  came  in. 

'  Who  is  that  singing  the  air  of  my  Toccata  that 
I  was  playing  yester  evening.  ?  You !  little  Betty. 
Why,  you  must  be  taught  to  sing  and  modulate 
your  voice — find  the  quarter  notes,  eh?  My  wife 
is  weary  with  this  day's  work,  and  troubles  herself 
with  fears  that  Smith's  organ  will  not  be  chosen. 
I  have  no  fears,  for  I  know  these  quarter  notes  will 
strike  the  balance  in  Smith's  favour.  If  it  does,  I 
may  chance  to  get  a  little  of  the  credit.  But  what 
is  credit  worth,  and  what  is  money  worth,  when 
compared  with  the  love  of  music  for  its  own  sake? 
I  would  gladly  eat  bread  and  drink  water  instead 
of  that  pasty  you  are  making  with  such  clever 
fingers,  if  the  choice  were  given  me  between  scant 
food  and  the  power  to  make  music  which  God  has 
given  me.  Child !  they  talk  of  the  music  of  the 
spheres  and  the  golden  harps  of  Heaven ;  I  don't 
doubt  those  celestial  regions  are  blessed  with  the 
sweetest  sounds,  but  it  cannot  be  to  the  inhabitants 
of  the  Heavenly  City  what  it  is  to  us  as  we  tread 
the  thorny  paths  of  this  toilsome  world.  Music  is  to 
us  the  gift  of  God  to  raise  us  upwards,  to  lighten 
care,  to  soften  sorrow,  to  be  a  balm  for  the  wounds 
of  the  spirit  which  we  all  have  to  bear.  So,  little 


WESTMINSTER  ABBEY  49 

Betty,  you  see  that  music  to  us  here  below  must 
mean  more  blessedness  than  to  the  dwellers  in  the 
Golden  City  of  which  the  Book  of  the  Revelation 
tells.' 

As  my  master  spoke,  his  face  was  illumined  and 
beautiful  to  behold,  as  with  the  ecstasy  of  a  lover 
who  was  extolling  the  charms  of  his  mistress. 

Now,  after  the  lapse  of  many  a  long  year,  I  can 
see  my  master,  Henry  Purcell,  as  I  saw  him  then — 
and  such  a  face,  glowing  with  the  light  from  within, 
I  never  saw,  nor  ever  shall  see  again. 

Then,  as  if  coming  back  to  earth,  he  said  gaily, — 

'  I  will  go  and  do  my  best  with  the  "  Welcome 
Song  "  for  the  King's  return.  I  do  not  feel  inspired 
with  Tom  Flatman's  words,  but  he  is  amazingly 
pleased  with  them,  so  I  must  render  them,  and  then 
be  ready  for  "  the  serene  and  rapturous  joys  "  which 
I  shall  know  when  I  eat  that  pasty  made  by  your 
hands,  little  Betty.' 

'From  these  serene  and  rapturous  joys'  was  the 
first  line  of  the  ode  written  to  welcome  back  the  King 
to  Whitehall. 

How  little  did  we  think  it  would  be  His  Majesty's 
last  return  to  his  palace. 

I  cannot  find  that  anything  else  worthy  of  note 
happened  this  year  which  would  please  those  who 
read  my  story  if  I  recorded  it. 

D 


50  IN  THE  CHOIR  OF 

I  grew  daily  more  satisfied  with  my  new  home,  for 
home  it  was  to  me. 

For  the  first  time  in  my  life  I  tasted  the  sweetness 
of  being  of  use  and,  I  may  say,  loved  and  valued  for 
my  poor  services. 

Mrs  Purcell  was  weak  and  unable  to  exert  herself 
in  matters  about  the  house.  Thus,  I  could  spare  her 
exertion,  and  I  grew  daily  more  attached  to  her  and 
the  dear  master. 

If  from  ill-health  Mrs  Purcell  was  a  little  dis- 
posed to  be  fractious  and  complaining,  and  would 
give  me  a  few  'quips  and  quirks,'  and  speak  crossly 
to  me,  I  did  not  heed  it,  for  I  knew  it  was  but  the 
passing  temper  of  a  moment,  and  that  she  really 
loved  me. 

The  visits  of  Adelicia  Crespion  were  frequent,  and 
she  had  the  power  when  with  me  of  making  me 
forget  her  faults,  and  that  she  was,  as  was  proved, 
untrustworthy.  But  she  kissed  me,  and  swore  eternal 
friendship  and — this  might  be  a  benefit  to  me — 
undertook  to  transform  me,  as  she  said,  from  a 
country  to  a  town  mouse. 

I  found  I  was  vain  enough  to  be  pleased  with  my 
new  cap,  made  from  my  mother's  old  lace,  which  also 
bordered  an  apron  and  kerchief  for  best  wear,  gar- 
nished with  a  quantity  of  blue  ribands  Adelicia  had 
cast  off. 


WESTMINSTER  ABBEY  51 

Then  the  old  brocade  and  taffeta,  which  had 
belonged  to  my  mother,  were  renovated,  and  my 
hair  —  that  rebellious  hair  —  taught  by  Adelicia's 
dainty  fingers,  with  pins  and  combs,  to  keep  itself 
within  bounds  under  the  coif  of  blue  riband  which 
she  made  for  me. 

My  black  hood  was  lined  with  a  bright  bit  of 
cherry-coloured  sarcenet,  and  I  was  quite  pleased  to 
see  how  well  it  became  me. 

I  even  wished  Edmund  could  see  me,  but  I  had 
no  word  or  sign  from  him  all  through  the  year. 
Adelicia  did  her  best  to  win  my  love,  and  Mrs 
Purcell  startled  me  one  day  by  saying  she  wondered 
what  Adelicia  wished  to  gain  by  all  her  attentions 
to  me. 

'There  is  nought  to  gain  from  me,'  I  said.  But 
Mrs  Purcell  shook  her  head  and  said  she  was  not 
so  sure,  adding, — 

'  I  cannot  help  myself.  I  love  Adelicia  when  I 
am  with  her;  but,  Betty,  I  never  trust  her.' 


BOOK    II 

1685—1686 

Love  all  ;  trust  a  few  ; 
Do  wrong  to  none  ;  be  able  for  thine  enemy 
Rather  in  power  than  use,  and  keep  thy  friend 
Under  thy  own  life's  key. 

SHAKESPEARE, 

Airs  Well  that  Ends  Wetl—Act  I. 


CHAPTER    III 

A.D.    1685 

THIS  year  opened  with  a  frost  so  bitter  that  the 
sufferings  of  the  poor  were  very  great 

The  River  Thames  was  frozen  for  a  few  days ; 
then  there  was  a  thaw,  which  was  unwholesome 
by  reason  of  the  damp  and  mire  and  mud,  which 
made  the  streets  well-nigh  impassable,  and  the 
constant  drip,  drip  from  the  eaves,  with  the  dark 
sky  overhead,  caused  much  depression  of  spirit  and 
sickness. 

I  felt  this  the  more  as  Mrs  Purcell  was  much 
affected  by  the  damp,  and  seemed  unable  to  forget 
herself  and  her  ailments. 

The  master  was  too  much  engrossed  with  his 
beloved  music  to  yield  to  low  spirits.  It  was  to  him, 
as  he  said,  the  very  joy  and  comfort  of  his  life. 

Never  a  day  passed  but  I  was  permitted  by  Mrs 
Purcell  to  go  to  evensong  in  the  Abbey,  and  with 
my  thick  pattens,  which  lifted  me  out  of  the  mire, 

55 


56  IN  THE  CHOIR  OF 

I  used  to  cross  Dean's  Yard  to  the  cloisters  as  if 
on  wings,  rather  than  with  the  slow  progress  with 
clogged  feet. 

Well  do  I  recall  the  February  afternoon,  when 
the  lengthening  days  gave  hope  of  spring,  despite 
the  dull  thaw,  which  seemed  as  if  it  would  never 
clear  away  the  masses  of  frozen  snow  or  melt  the 
ice  lying  in  broken  blocks  on  the  river. 

Adelicia  Crespion  did  not  care  to  expose  herself 
to  the  bad  weather,  for  it  did  not  suit  her  com- 
plexion, and  made  the  ribands  on  her  hood  hang 
limp  and  damp. 

But  this  afternoon  she  overtook  me,  saying, — 

*  I  am  in  a  religious  fit,  little  Betty,  so  I  am  com- 
ing to  the  service.  It  is  so  abominably  dull  yonder. 
My  uncle  is  as  cross  as  two  sticks.' 

She  put  her  hand,  as  was  her  wont,  caressingly 
into  my  arm,  and  we  went  to  our  seats  in  the  choir, 
for  no  verger  could  interfere  with  the  Chanter's  niece. 

By  this  time  I  had  learned  to  know  the  Abbey 
well.  Every  spare  moment  I  would  go  and  prowl 
about,  and  delight  my  eyes  with  the  delicate 
beauty  of  Henry  the  Seventh's  Chapel,  and  read  on 
the  tombs  of  many  great  ones  who  lie  under  the 
shadow  of  the  mighty  Minster  the  story  of  their 
lives — '  So  soon  passeth  it  away,  and  we  are  gone, 
this  transitory  life  of  ours.' 


WESTMINSTER  ABBEY  57 

These  words  were  ofttimes  in  my  mind,  and 
more  especially  to-day,  for  the  Chanter  prayed  for 
our  Sovereign  Lord  the  King,  who  lay  in  extreme 
sickness,  and  who  was  in  sore  need  of  the  fervent 
prayers  of  his  people. 

Beautiful  exceedingly  was  the  music,  which 
made  every  verse  of  the  psalms  full  of  meaning, 
so  wondrous  was  the  master  power  to  wed  the 
music  to  the  words.  How  the  organ  pealed  forth 
at  'The  voice  of  the  Lord  shaketh  the  wilderness; 
yea,  the  Lord  shaketh  the  wilderness  of  Kadesh  ! ' 

Then,  as  a  message  from  the  heavens,  came 
the  soft  sweetness  of  the  closing  words  of  hope 
and  promise — '  The  Lord  shall  give  His  people  the 
blessing  of  peace.' 

As  we  rose  to  leave  the  Abbey,  a  faint  ray  of 
sunshine  came  straggling  in  at  the  big  west  win- 
dow, and  fell  upon  the  figure  of  a  gentleman 
standing  just  where  it  made  a  pathway  of  light. 
My  heart  beat  so  fast  that  I  could  almost  hear 
its  throbs,  for  the  man  was  Edmund  Pelham. 

'  Betty ! '  he  exclaimed,  and  then  we  clasped 
hands,  forgetting  everything  but  the  presence 
of  each  other  till  reminded  by  a  laugh  from 
Adelicia. 

'  So  the  suitor  has  come  at  last ! '  she  said  in  an 
undertone,  but  it  reached  Edmund's  ears. 


58  IN  THE  CHOIR  OF 

When  we  were  outside  the  Abbey,  Adelicia,  I 
saw,  took  in  at  a  glance  that  it  was  worth  play-  « 
ing  off  her  airs  and  graces  upon  Edmund.  She 
began  forthwith  to  do  so,  casting  admiring  glances 
upon  him  with  her  large,  lustrous  eyes,  which,  she 
always  persuaded  herself,  were  equal  to  those  of 
Mrs  Bracegirdle,  though,  indeed,  she  was  in  this 
greatly  mistaken,  for,  if  lustrous,  they  had  none 
of  the  enchanting  softness  of  Mrs  Bracegirdle's. 

I  was  dumb  with  heart-joy  at  the  appearance  of 
Edmund,  for  it  is  ever  so  with  me  when  deeply 
moved.  I  am  silent — words  will  not  come  at  my 
bidding.  They  came  fast  enough  whenever  Adelicia 
pleased — and  very  soon,  before  we  had  reached 
Mr  Purcell's  door,  she  was  chattering  to  Edmund 
as  if  she  had  known  him  for  years. 

And  he  seemed  amused  and  pleased  with  her, 
though  now  and  again  he  looked  down  at  me  as 
if  inviting  me  to  join  in  the  talk.  But  Adelicia's 
attention  was  now  diverted  by  a  smart  gallant 
coming  up  to  her  with  a  low  bow.  I  recognised 
him  as  one  of  the  gentlemen  who  had  asked 
to  escort  Mrs  Bracegirdle  to  Dean's  Yard  on  the 
day  I  first  saw  her  at  the  Abbey.  If  ever  a  man 
had  an  evil  face,  this  man  had  one.  But  Adelicia 
flushed  crimson,  and  was  apparently  pleased  to 
see  him. 


NORTH  TRANSEPT  OF  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY,  IN  THE 
SEVENTEENTH  CENTURY. 


WESTMINSTER  ABBEY  59 

'  I  have  been  to  the  Chanter's  house,  madam,'  he 
said, '  with  a  missive  from  Mistress  Bracegirdle,  who 
would  fain  have  your  presence  at  the  theatre  to- 
night, where  she  is  acting  Portia  in  "  The  Merchant 
of  Venice" — the  first  time  she  has  undertaken  so 
prominent  a  part;  but  I  swear  she  will  be  such  a 
lovely  Portia  as  was  never  seen  on  the  boards  yet.' 

Adelicia  pouted,  and  said, — 

'  I  thank  you,  Captain  Hill,  for  your  obliging  offer, 
but  I  know  my  good  uncle  would  as  soon  see  me 
dead  as  at  the  play  to-night.' 

'  What  a  cruel  disappointment ! '  Captain  Hill  said, 
leering  at  me  in  an  odious  fashion,  which  made 
Edmund  say  sharply, — 

'  We  cannot  stand  parleying  in  the  cold  any 
longer.  May  I  enter  Master  Purcell's  house  with 
you,  Betty?' 

I  lifted  the  latch  of  the  door,  and  we  passed  in 
together,  leaving  Adelicia  outside. 

To  my  surprise  she  called  out, — 

'  May  I  not  come  in  also  ? '  and  turning  to  Captain 
Hill  she  said, '  Make  my  respectful  compliments  and 
thanks  to  Madam  Bracegirdle,  and  say  I  regret  not 
seeing  the  loveliest  Portia  who  was  ever  on  the 
boards.'  Then,  with  a  toss  of  her  head,  she  followed 
us  into  the  parlour. 

I    was   greatly   chagrined    at    her   forcing   herself 


60  IN  THE  CHOIR  OF 

upon  us — I  had  so  much  to  hear  from  Edmund — 
and  it  is  a  marvel  that  Adelicia  did  not  discover 
she  was  not  wanted.  But  I  verily  believe  she  was 
so  vain  that  she  thought  there  could  not  be  a 
moment  when  her  presence  was  not  a  boon  in  any 
company.  She  threw  back  her  warm  hood  and 
cloak,  seated  herself  on  the  settle,  stretched  out 
her  small,  well-shod  feet  to  the  blaze  of  the  fire,  on 
which  a  fresh  log  had  lately  been  put,  and  seemed 
perfectly  at  her  ease. 

It  was  necessary  for  me  to  seek  Mrs  Purcell,  and 
ask  her  permission  to  bid  Edmund  to  stay  to 
supper. 

'  Who  is  he  ? '  she  asked. 

'  He  is  a  relation  of  my  stepmother,  and — ' 

'Bid  him  stay  by  all  means,  Betty;  but  you 
must  prepare  the  supper.  I  am  too  sick  to  give 
any  assistance.  Who  is  below?' 

'  Adelicia  Crespion.  She  came  in  unasked,'  I 
said. 

'  She  ever  deems  her  company  is  desired ;  but  she 
must  not  be  affronted ;  she  is  the  Chanter's  niece, 
and  Henry  is  careful  to  keep  in  the  good  graces  of 
the  Chapter  of  the  Abbey.' 

Adelicia  seemed  in  fine  spirits  when  at  last,  after 
preparing  the  supper,  I  was  free  to  return  to  the 
parlour.  And  Edmund  also  looked  well  pleased 


WESTMINSTER  ABBEY  61 

with  his  company.  A  pang  of  jealousy  shot  through 
my  heart,  and,  I  doubt  not,  my  face  told  its 
tale. 

Edmund  rose  when  I  said  supper  was  served,  and 
we  went  to  the  other  parlour  where  it  was  laid  out. 

Presently  Mr  Purcell  came  in. 

'  There  is  bad  news  of  His  Majesty,'  he  said ; 
'the  physicians  do  not  think  he  will  live  through 
the  night.  There  are  prayers  offered  in  the  Court 
chapels,  the  chaplains  taking  it  in  turn  every 
quarter  of  an  hour.  There  is  great  trouble  in  the 
palace,  and  fears  that  the  King  is  desiring  the 
popish  offices,  for  he  rejects  the  Holy  Communion 
administered  by  the  Bishop  of  Bath  and  Wells. 
There  are  dark  days  coming,  I  fear  me,  for  the 
Church  and  Kingdom.' 

A  loud  rapping  at  the  door  made  us  all  start, 
and,  Mr  Purcell  hastening  to  open  it,  we  heard  a 
voice  ask, — 

'  Is  Mistress  Crespion  here  ? ' 

'  My  uncle  I '  Adelicia  exclaimed.  '  Now  pity  me, 
all  of  you ;  I  shall  be  scolded  like  a  naughty  child.' 

'Bid  her  come  without  delay,'  we  heard  the 
Chanter  say.  '  No,  no,  Master  Purcell,  I  cannot 
suffer  my  niece  to  absent  herself  from  my  house 
for  hours  with  never  a  word  of  apology.  No,  no, 
I  will  await  her  coming  here.' 


62  IN  THE  CHOIR  OF 

'You  would  not  have  me,  Uncle  Stephen,  come 
bareheaded  into  the  cold  night  ?  I  must  needs  don 
my  cloak  and  hood/ 

This  was  spoken  in  loud,  shrill  tones.  Then  she 
put  her  arms  round  me,  and  kissed  me  again  and 
again,  saying,— 

'  Sweet  Betty,  adieu  !  adieu  ! '  Then  a  curtsey,  with 
a  bewitching  smile  to  Edmund,  and  she  was  gone. 

We  supped  together,  Mr  Purcell,  Edmund  and 
I,  for  I  carried  up  Mrs  Purcell's  supper,  as  she 
felt  too  sick  to  come  down  to  the  parlour. 

Then,  while  Edmund  and  Mr  Purcell  talked,  I 
listened. 

I  had  never  seen  Edmund  so  agreeable,  and  I 
could  but  admire  the  way  in  which  he  entered  into 
Mr  Purcell's  favourite  topic,  and  begged  that  he 
might  hear  him  play  his  last  new  piece  for  the 
harpsichord. 

He  was  just  about  to  gratify  him  when  he  was 
summoned  by  one  of  the  choristers  of  the  Chapel 
Royal  to  attend  a  practice  of  an  anthem  in  the 
other  parlour.  Then  Edmund  and  I  were  left 
alone. 

'  Did  you  think  I  was  faithless,  Betty  ?  How  many 
months  is  it  since  we  parted?' 

'Near  a  year,'  I  said. 

'And  you  are  glad  to  see  me,  Betty?' 


WESTMINSTER  ABBEY  63 

My  eyes  filled  with  tears.  How  could  he  ask  such 
a  question  ? 

'  Well,'  he  said,  '  I  have  done  with  stuffing  a 
dunderhead  with  Greek  and  Latin,  and  I  am  come 
to  take  up  my  chambers  at  the  Temple  to  study 
law  in  good  earnest.  So  you  will  often  see  me, 
and  we  shall  be  happy.  Is  it  so,  Betty?' 

'Yes,'  I  said,  but  my  heart  told  me  there  was  a 
change  since  the  evening  in  the  porch  of  Ivy  Farm 
when  he  told  of  his  love.  A  change — and  what 
was  it? 

He  looked  handsomer  than  ever.  He  was  noble 
in  appearance,  and  I  felt  proud  of  him — proud  that 
he  could  care  for  me. 

'  Now  tell  me  what  you  have  done  here.  Are  you 
well  treated?  Are  these  people  good  to  you?' 

'  So  good  that  I  love  them,'  I  said ;  '  and  then  I 
have  the  Abbey  near  me,  and  music — such  music ! ' 

'  A  dreamy  little  maiden  as  ever,  I  see,'  Edmund 
said.  'Are  the  books  shut  now  music  has  the 
first  place?' 

'No;  I  read  my  Shakespeare  and  Spenser,  and 
Stella  and  Astrophel ;  but  I  have  learned  to  think 
the  Bible  the  best  book,  and  the  grandest  poetry  is 
to  be  found  in  it,  surely.' 

'Turned  Puritan — is  that  it?'  Edmund  asked, 
pinching  my  ear  and  then  kissing  it.  Do  not 


64  IN  THE  CHOIR  OF 

turn  Puritan  for  my  sake,  child.'  Then  with  a 
laugh,  'Your  friend  with  the  bright  eyes  is  no 
Puritan.  What  is  her  name?  What  kisses  she 
gave  you  at  parting.  I  see  you  are  like  lovers.' 

'  No,'  I  said ;  '  you  mistake.  I  like  Adelicia  well 
enow,  but  I  do  not  love  her.' 

'  And  do  you  say  the  same  of  me  ?  You  like  me 
well  enow,  but  you  do  not  love  me.' 

'You  know  it  is  not  so,'  I  replied,  drawing  away 
from  him. 

'  Forsooth,  I  do  not  know,'  he  said ;  '  that  fare- 
well of  yours  at  the  door  of  the  stage  wagon  was 
cold  enow,  and  you  were  blithe  while  I  was 
sad.' 

I  could  not  reply  to  this.  My  heart  was  sore  to 
think  how  little  Edmund  understood  me. 

'Well,  I  must  take  my  leave  now.  I  need  not 
wait  to  see  Master  Purcell.  You  must  make  my 
adieux  for  me.  What  a  voice  that  is,'  he  exclaimed, 
as  Mr  Gostling,  who  was  rehearsing  an  anthem, 
made  the  house  almost  shake  with  his  bass  voice, 
followed  by  an  angelic  treble  of  one  of  the  chief 
choristers  of  the  Chapel  Royal. 

Then  Edmund  took  my  hand  in  his,  drew  me 
towards  him,  kissed  me  lightly  on  the  forehead, 
and  left  me. 

A  sense  of  unsatisfied  longing  oppressed  me.     For 


WESTMINSTER  ABBEY  65 

all  he  said,  for  all  he  did,  I  felt  there  was  a  change 
— or  had  I  changed?     What  was  it? 

The  next  morning  the  news  of  the  King's  death 
was  sent  by  special  messenger  to  the  Dean,  and 
Mr  Purcell  was  summoned  to  consult  as  to  the 
funeral  anthem  and  other  music  which  was  to  be 
sung  in  the  Abbey. 

Orders  were  given  that  the  King  should  be  buried 
in  a  vault  beneath  the  beautiful  Chapel  of  King 
Henry  the  Seventh,  and  there,  without  any  pomp 
or  ceremony,  he  was  laid  to  rest. 

Everyone  wore  black,  and  there  was  a  general 
feeling  of  solemnity  and  mourning  which  affected 
all,  however  humble  or  however  great. 

How  quick  was  the  change  from  mourning  to 
rejoicing  !  In  our  little  household  nothing  was 
talked  of  but  the  coming  Coronation  of  the  new  King. 

Mr  Purcell  was  at  work  all  day,  superintending 
the  building  of  an  organ  behind  the  seats  of  the 
King's  Choir  of  Vocal  Music,  who  were  to  sit  in  a 
gallery  under  one  of  the  south  arches  of  the  chancel. 

He  scarce  gave  himself  time  to  snatch  any  food, 
and  he  was  busy  often  till  the  morning  hours  with 
the  composition  of  two  anthems  for  the  Coronation. 
These  anthems  were  thought  very  beautiful,  and  they 
received  the  unstinted  praise  of  all  who  heard 
them. 

E 


66  IN  THE  CHOIR  OF 

There  would  be  a  vast  crowd  in  the  Abbey  on 
the  23d  of  April,  and  it  was  doubtful  if  any  place 
could  be  obtained  for  Mrs  Purcell. 

Mr  Purcell  was  teased  and  troubled  by  the  clam- 
our of  people  begging  him  to  favour  them  by 
getting  them  seats,  or  even  room  to  stand.  So 
benign  and  kindly  was  Mr  Purcell's  nature  that  it 
was  rare  indeed  to  see  him  moved  to  irritation  or 
anger,  but  he  lost  patience  with  those  who  besieged 
his  door  and  prayed  him  to  get  them  admission 
to  the  Abbey. 

'  I  tell  you,'  he  said,  pushing  his  way  through  the 
throng  of  supplicants ;  '  I  tell  you  I  can  scarce  pro- 
mise my  wife  that  she  shall  see  the  Coronation,  and 
is  it  possible  that  I  can  give  you  admission?  Do 
not  press  me  unduly,  madam,'  he  said  to  one  per- 
sisting gentlewoman,  'and  be  gone.' 

This  happened  on  the  day  before  the  Coronation, 
and  I  grieved  to  see  how  weary  the  dear  master  was 
when,  that  evening,  he  threw  himself  down  on  the 
settle,  and  sighed  out, — 

' "  Oh  that  I  had  the  wings  of  a  dove,  then  would 
I  flee  away  and  be  at  rest."  Here  Frances,'  he  said, 
calling  Mrs  Purcell  to  him;  'here  is  a  purse  full  of 
gold  for  you;  they  have  paid  me  for  my  services  in 
supervising  the  building  of  the  little  organ.' 

Mrs  Purcell's  eyes  brightened. 


WESTMINSTER  ABBEY  67 

'  The  money  is  very  welcome,  dear  heart,'  she  said, 
'  though  your  services  cannot  be  paid  for  with  gold.' 

'  I  must  give  our  good  child  Betty  some  of  the  spoil,' 
Mr  Purcell  said,  and  putting  his  hand  in  the  bag  he 
bid  Mrs  Purcell  hand  me  two  gold  pieces.  'Well 
earned !  well  earned ! '  the  dear  master  said,  '  for 
the  dozen  of  copies  you  have  made  of  the  score 
of  my  anthem,  "  I  was  glad  when  they  said  unto 
me."' 

I  knelt  and  kissed  his  hand,  and  said  I  needed  no 
reward  for  what  I  did.  Did  not  he  and  Mrs  Purcell 
give  me  a  home  and  treat  me  with  kindness  such  as 
I  had  never  known  before?' 

Then  Mrs  Purcell  kissed  and  embraced  me,  and  said 
she  hoped  I  would  always  find  my  home  with  them. 

'  No !  no ! '  Mr  Purcell  said  ;  '  not  always.  Betty 
will  have  a  home  of  her  own  when  that  young 
gentleman  of  the  Bar  has  made  his  way  upward, 
as  he  surely  will.' 

Everyone  was  astir  at  dawn  the  next  morning. 
The  ladies  of  the  Court  and  the  wives  and  daughters 
of  the  nobility  were  dressed  over-night  for  the  great 
occasion. 

I  watched  from  my  window  in  the  roof  those  fine 
ladies  thronging  the  entrance  to  the  Abbey  by  the 
cloisters,  but  the  great  crowd  was  collected  in  the 
square  before  the  big  west  door. 


68  IN  THE  CHOIR  OF 

I  was  left  in  charge  of  the  house,  and  was  well 
content  not  to  risk  being  jostled  and  pushed  about 
as  I  had  been  in  the  Temple  Church. 

When  the  Abbey  clock  struck  six,  the  doors  were 
opened,  and  the  rush  which  I  saw  from  my  little 
window  was  very  great. 

Those  set  to  watch  the  doors  had  much  ado  to 
prevent  these  eager  folks  from  being  crushed  to 
death,  and  presently  I  saw  two  men  bearing  out  of 
the  crowd  a  gentlewoman  who  had  swooned. 

Soon  there  was  a  loud  knocking  at  the  door, 
which  had  been  bolted  and  barred,  and  I  hastened 
downstairs  to  open  it. 

Mr  Mountfort  was  standing  there,  and  cried  in  a 
voice  of  distress, — 

'  This  is  Master  Purcell's  house.  Ah  !  and  I  know 
you,  madam.  I  pray  you  let  us  bring  in  Mistress 
Bracegirdle,  who  has  swooned  in  the  unmannerly 
crowd  by  the  cloister  door.' 

He  did  not  wait  for  an  answer,  but  rushed  back 
meeting  two  men,  who  were  bearing  Mrs  Brace- 
girdle  in  their  arms.  One  of  these  men  was  Edmund 
Pelham,  the  other  that  evil-faced  man  they  called 
Captain  Hill.  He  strode  in  with  his  burden,  and 
laid  her  on  the  settle.  Her  beautiful  hair  had 
fallen  from  her  hood,  and  lay  in  rich  masses  over 
her  shoulders. 


WESTMINSTER  ABBEY  69 

'  Hasten  and  fetch  water,'  Captain  Hill  said, '  and 
a  burnt  feather  and  vinegar.' 

I  did  not  like  the  peremptory  order  given  me, 
though  I  was  pleased  to  have  the  chance  of 
serving  Mrs  Bracegirdle. 

Mr  Mountfort  spoke  after  a  very  different  fashion, 
and  said, — 

'  Mistress  Lockwood  will  do  her  best  to  get  what 
is  needful;  she  is  the  friend,  not  the  serving-maid 
in  this  house.' 

But  Edmund  Pelham  had  gone  to  the  kitchen 
before  I  could  reach  it,  and  gave  me  a  cup  of 
water  from  a  pail  standing  there. 

'Where  is  the  vinegar?'  he  asked. 

'  I  will  find  it  and  a  feather,  for  we  plucked  a 
capon  yesterday ;  but  do  you  hasten  with  the 
water.' 

'That  villain  Hill  needs  a  horsewhip  for  daring 
to  address  you  as  he  did,'  Edmund  said,  as  he  went 
off  with  the  water. 

'Oh,  do  not  quarrel  with  that  man/  I  cried,  'he 
looks  so  wicked.' 

'  And  his  looks  do  not  belie  him/  was  the  reply. 

I  soon  filled  a  mug  with  vinegar,  and  held  the 
capon's  feather — which  I  had  put  in  a  locker  the 
day  before — to  the  smouldering  fire  on  the  hearth. 
It  was  all  done  more  quickly  than  I  can  tell  it, 


70  IN  THE  CHOIR  OF 

and  when  I  returned  to  the  parlour  Mrs  Brace- 
girdle  had  been  sprinkled  with  the  water,  and  had 
opened  her  beauteous  eyes. 

'  I  am  not  wont  to  swoon,'  she  said,  with  a  faint 
smile,  'except  on  the  stage,  where  they  tell  me  I 
feign  it  well.  I  know  not  how  this  came  about. 
Thanks  to  you,  my  good,  kind  friend,'  Mrs  Brace- 
girdle  said,  putting  out  her  hand  to  Mr  Mountfort, 
'  I  am  safe  out  of  that  unruly  throng.' 

'Nay,  fair  lady,'  Captain  Hill  said,  'you  do  me 
wrong — it  may  not  please  you  to  hear  it — but  it  was 
my  happy  fortune  to  bear  you  in  my  arms  to  this 
place  of  refuge,  with  the  help  of  this  gallant  gentle- 
man of  the  law.  Mountfort  may  die  of  the  green- 
eyed  monster  if  he  likes — I  see  it  peeping  out  of 
his  eyes  even  now.' 

'  Have  a  care  sir !  have  a  care ! '  Mr  Mountfort 
said.  '  I  will  brook  none  of  your  insults.' 

'  Nor  will  I  brook  any  quarrelling,'  Mrs  Bracegirdle 
said,  raising  herself  into  a  sitting  posture.  '  For 
shame,  gentlemen  ! '  as  Captain  Hill  put  his  hand  on 
his  sword-hilt.  '  I  am  about  to  ask  a  favour  of  you 
both — of  you  all,'  she  said,  turning  to  Edmund. 
'  Leave  me,  I  pray  you,  here  under  the  care  of  this 
sweet  child,  and  should  I  dare  to  encounter  it,  I 
will  make  another  effort  to  enter  the  Abbey.  Now,' 
she  said  imperiously, '  do  as  I  bid  you,  Captain  Hill. 


WESTMINSTER  ABBEY  71 

And  you/  she  said  to  Mr  Mountfort,  in  a  voice  of 
gentle  entreaty,  'you  will  not  need  a  second  bid- 
ding; you  are  ever  kind  and  considerate.' 

'  Methinks,  though  it  may  be  I  say  this  now  in 
the  light  of  subsequent  events,  which  are  now  in 
the  far  distant  past — methinks  Mrs  Bracegirdle  did 
unadvisedly  to  rouse  the  vindictive  jealousy  of  Cap- 
tain Hill.  It  smouldered  long  after  this  scene  in 
Mr  PurcelPs  parlour,  but  it  never  died  out,  and 
only  gathered  strength  as  do  the  volcanic  fires  of 
which  we  read,  that  bide  their  time  to  burst  forth 
with  fury. 

Mr  Mountfort  bent  on  one  knee  and  kissed  the 
hand  held  out  to  him,  while  Captain  Hill  turned 
on  his  heel,  and,  with  a  discordant  laugh,  said  to 
Edmund, — 

'Come,  Pelham,  let  us  be  off  like  whipped  curs, 
with  our  tails  between  our  legs  ;  but  curs  can  show 
their  teeth  and  bite  too  when  their  blood  is  up.' 

'We  will  follow  you,'  Edmund  said,  to  my  great 
satisfaction,  for  I  could  not  bear  the  thought  of  any 
friendship  between  him  and  this  man.  '  I  will  wait 
to  see  Mistress  Bracegirdle  quite  restored.' 

'  We  will  return,'  Edmund  said,  as  he  left  the  par- 
lour with  Mr  Mountfort,  who  turned  to  look  back  with 
sad,  regretful  eyes  at  Mrs  Bracegirdle.  '  I  will  return 
— it  is  yet  scarcely  past  seven — and  I  may  chance 


72  IN  THE  CHOIR  OF 

even  now  to  obtain  for  you  and  Mrs  Bracegirdle  a 
place  where  you  may  witness  this  ceremony.  Adieu, 
Betty ! ' 

When  they  were  gone,  to  my  great  surprise,  Mrs 
Bracegirdle  burst  into  tears. 

'Oh,  child,'  she  said,  'may  you  never  know  the 
cruel  fate  of  an  actress ! ' 

'  Cruel ! '  I  said.  '  It  seems  to  me,  dear  madam, 
that  you  are  to  be  envied.' 

'  Envied  ?  Ah  !  you  do  not  understand.  My  fervent 
prayer  is  to  be  kept  as  pure  as  when  I  was  a  little 
child  playing  in  the  cowslip  fields  in  Surrey.  But  it 
is  useless  to  blind  one's  eyes  to  the  truth.  A  woman 
who  earns  her  bread  on  the  stage  is  surrounded  with 
temptations  ;  and,  with  all  morality  set  at  nought  at 
the  Court,  is  it  to  be  wondered  at  that,  in  a  company 
of  men  and  women  who  are  brought  together  by  a 
common  interest,  they  should  sometimes  turn  the  sim- 
ilitude of  love  which  they  show  to  one  another  every 
night  on  the  boards  into  the  reality  ?  This  is  a  curse 
— yes,  a  curse,'  she  repeated,  '  to  a  woman  who  is  the 
fashion  for  beauty  and  acting  ;  for,  mind  you,  there 
is  fashion  in  this — a  following  where  others  lead. 
Have  you  not  seen  one  goose  stretch  her  wings 
and  waddle  across  a  common,  when  others,  who  have 
been  content  to  squat  in  a  pleasant  spot,  must  needs 
all  run  after  their  leader,  cackling  as  they  go,  often 


WESTMINSTER  ABBEY  73 

to  find  they  had  better  have  stayed  where  they  were, 
for  they  have  perchance  run  into  danger  of  being 
scattered  by  a  shepherd's  dog  or  some  other  enemy  ? 
Ah,  yes  !  there  is  a  fashion  which  sways  men  and 
women  as  well  as  geese  ;  where  one  who  is  thought 
a  good  judge  goes,  others  must  needs  follow.  Poor 
fools  !  poor  fools  !  and  poor  women  who  are  pursued 
by  them  !  But ' — changing  her  mood,  and  her  eyes 
lighted  up  with  the  marvellous  lustre  which  none  who 
saw  can  forget — 'but  I  love  to  be  Portia,  and  I  am 
Portia  for  the  time,  and  then  I  feel  transported 
above  mean  and  sordid  surroundings  to  all  that  is 
noble  and  good.  And  yet,  child,  we  can  spare  pity 
for  the  ignoble,  as  I  do  for  the  old  Jew.  Yes,  I  pity 
him — I  pity  him  as  he  totters  away  burdened  with 
his  weight  of  years  and  weight  of  wickedness  and 
saith,  "  I  am  not  well."  I  feel  my  eyes  fill  with  tears, 
though  I  have  saved  Antonio  and  effected  his  ruin. 
Poor  Shylock — poor  those  who  are  like  him  and 
vindictive  and  base.  These  need  our  pity,  ay,  our 
tears,  more — far  more — than  the  pure  and  the  up- 
right and  the  honourable.' 

I  was  so  enthralled  by  Mrs  Bracegirdle's  talk,  so 
enchanted  by  her  beauty,  that  I  forgot  everything 
in  the  pride  I  felt  of  being  admitted  to  her  con- 
fidence. I  forgot  the  magnificent  scene  which 
everyone  was  all  agog  to  witness.  I  forgot  the 


74  IN  THE  CHOIR  OF 

lurking  disappointment  I  had  felt  when  left  alone 
that  morning;  surely  I  had  no  cause  to  regret  it 
now,  now  that  I  had  this  beautiful  lady  talking  to 
me  as  a  friend. 

She  asked  me  to  restore  her  hair  to  order,  adding, 
with  a  smile, — 

'You,  too,  are  troubled  with  a  weight  of  hair, 
and  may  well  manage  mine.' 

While  I  did  her  bidding,  she  told  me  of  her  friend- 
ship with  Mr  Mountfort,  of  his  marvellous  gifts  of 
mimicry,  of  his  intimacy  with  the  Chief  Justice 
Jeffreys. 

'  Opposites  often  find  pleasure  in  each  other's 
society,'  she  said  ;  '  it  is  the  case  here,  for  sure  no  two 
men  were  to  all  seeming  so  different  as  the  Judge  and 
William  Mountfort.  Not  a  month  ago,  at  an  enter- 
tainment of  the  Lord  Mayor  and  Aldermen,  the  Judge, 
being  a  guest,  called  Will  Mountfort  to  plead  a  feigned 
cause,  in  which  he  mimicked  some  gentleman  of  the 
Bar  and  judges  on  the  bench  with  such  wit  and 
humour  that  the  company  were  fit  to  die  of  laugh- 
ing. With  all  his  gifts  he  is  ever  modest,  and  has 
no  arrogant  manners  like  so  many  I  could  name. 
He  is  my  friend,  and  I  am  proud  to  own  it  I  am 
longing  for  him  to  wed  with  the  daughter  of  a 
friend  of  mine,  also  an  actor,  Mistress  Susanna 
Perceval.  She  is  worthy  of  his  love ;  and  as  to 


WESTMINSTER  ABBEY  75 

him,  he  is  worthy  of  the  best  woman  that  is  to  be 
found  on  earth.' 

I  had  just  completed  Mrs  Bracegirdle's  toilette, 
and  had  brought  some  wine  and  cake  for  her  re- 
freshment from  our  little  store  in  the  buttery,  when 
there  was  again  loud  knocking  at  the  door. 

I  was  hastening  to  open  it,  when  Mrs  Bracegirdle 
said, — 

'  Hold  !  Have  a  care  whom  you  admit ;  inquire 
who  goes  there  ere  you  open  the  door.' 

I  had  not  need  to  hesitate  long.  I  heard  Adelicia's 
voice, — 

'  Open,  open  the  door,  Betty — here  is  news  for  you. 

Then  as  I  obeyed  she  rushed  in  to  say  her  uncle, 
Mr  Crespion,  had  a  seat  for  me  with  her  to  see 
the  Coronation,  and  I  must  come  at  once — he  was 
waiting  at  the  cloister  door. 

'  I  cannot  come  in  this  guise,'  I  said ;  '  it  is  not 
possible/  for  I  was  in  my  short  home-spun  skirt 
and  bodice,  with  only  a  thick  linen  kerchief,  and 
no  cap. 

'  You  shall  come !  you  must  come !  it  is  a  shame 
Mr  Purcell  has  left  you  behind.' 

Adelicia  was  so  intent  on  her  errand  that  she 
had  not  noticed  Mrs  Bracegirdle's  presence. 

'  Make  her  get  ready,  madam,'  she  said,  appeal- 
ing to  her. 


76  IN  THE  CHOIR  OF 

And  Edmund  now  appeared,  according  to  pro- 
mise, to  conduct  Mrs  Bracegirdle  back  to  the  Abbey. 

'Take  my  place,'  I  said  to  Mrs  Bracegirdle; 
'  it  must  be  a  good  place  —  and  I  would  sooner 
stay  at  home  I  could  not  make  myself  ready  in 
time.  I  could  not  Do  not  urge  me.' 

I  thought  if  Edmund  had  added  his  entreaties 
to  Adelicia's  I  might  have  complied,  but  he  said, — 

'  It  may  be  as  well,  for  if  we  delay,  our  chance  of 
getting  into  the  Abbey  will  be  small.' 

Mrs  Bracegirdle  did  not,  I  saw,  wish  to  leave 
me,  but  Adelicia  clamoured  for  haste  and  Edmund 
again  repeated, — 

'  It  may  be  as  well,  but  do  not  delay.' 

So  in  another  moment  I  was  alone.  I  locked 
and  barred  the  door,  and  then,  I  scarce  knew  why, 
I  flung  myself  on  the  settle  where  Mrs  Bracegirdle 
had  rested,  and  cried  bitterly. 

It  was  not  altogether,  no,  not  at  all,  from  dis- 
appointment about  the  Coronation.  It  was  from 
the  feeling,  growing  stronger  and  stronger,  sorer 
and  sorer  as  time  passed,  that  Edmund  Pelham's 
love  for  me  had  waned.  Had  he  not  on  that 
spring  evening  a  year  ago  pressed  his  love  on  me, 
though  declaring  he  would  not  bind  me  by  any 
promise — neither  was  I  bound.  Ah,  me  !  at  seven- 
teen a  maiden  scarce  knows  her  own  heart,  for  it 


THE  CORONATION  OF  JAMES  II.  AND  MARY  OF  MODENA. 


WESTMINSTER  ABBEY  77 

is  stirred  by  the  first  breath  of  love  and  deems 
that  to  be  eternal  which  is  maybe,  like  all  earthly 
things,  to  prove  fleeting  and  transitory. 

I  felt  then,  and  I  know  now,  that  I  had  not 
shown  Edmund  what  was  indeed  in  my  heart.  I 
cannot  tell  how  it  is  or  why ;  but  I  know  now, 
that,  if  I  wished,  as  I  did  wish,  to  keep  him  true 
to  me,  I  should  have  spoken  and  acted  differently 
towards  him,  and  perhaps — 

But  what  avails  it  to  be  mourning  over  a  dead 
past — a  dead  love.  Yet,  even  now,  as  I  stand  by 
its  grave,  I  am  filled  with  sadness,  and  a  strange 
longing  for  that  which  then  seemed  lost  to  me 
for  ever. 

The  huzzas  of  a  thousand  voices  reached  my 
ears  as  the  people  hailed  the  King  and  his  Queen 
on  their  coming  to  the  great  west  door  of  the 
Abbey. 

The  bells  rang  a  joyous  peal,  and  the  swell  of 
the  organ  reached  me,  with  the  faint  sound  of  the 
voices  of  the  choristers,  as  I  sat  by  the  open  lattice 
of  my  chamber  in  the  roof. 

It  was  a  long-drawn-out  ceremony,  and  lasted 
for  hours. 

It  was  near  five  o'clock,  when  the  sun  of  the 
April  day  was  nearing  the  west,  and  gleamed  on 
every  pinnacle  of  the  Abbey  and  roofs  of  the  houses 


78  IN  THE  CHOIR  OF 

clustering  round  it,  that  I  saw  Mrs  Purcell  and  the 
dear  master  making  their  way  through  the  crowd 
in  Dean's  Yard  towards  their  home. 

I  ran  down  to  meet  them  joyfully,  for  I  was 
weary  of  my  loneliness  and  my  own  thoughts. 

Mrs  Purcell  was  faint  and  tired,  and  I  was  glad 
I  had  prepared  refreshment  for  her. 

'  I  would  you  had  heard  Henry's  anthem  ;  it  was 
grand,  and  beautiful  beyond  anything  you  can 
imagine.' 

'  Now,  dear  wife,  moderate  your  praise.  I  shall 
do  better  yet.  The  anthem  owed  much  to  the  voices 
which  rendered  it.  The  basses  were  wondrously 
true,  and  it  was  verily  a  volume  of  sound  which 
rose  and  fell  with  grandeur  and  pathos.  I  can  take 
small  praise  for  that.' 

'  You  take  praise  for  nought  you  do,'  Mrs  Purcell 
said.  '  No  one  values  you  so  little  as  you  value 
yourself.' 

'And  if  it  is  so,  I  am  on  the  safe  side,  dear 
heart,  but  only  those  who  have  music  in  their 
souls  know  how  the  expression  thereof  falls  far, 
far  short  of  that  to  which  they  would  fain  give 
utterance.' 

'  The  acclamations  for  the  King  and  Queen  were 
not  as  hearty  as  I  expected,'  Mrs  Purcell  said. 

'  No,  there   is   a    whisper  of    discontent    on    the 


WESTMINSTER  ABBEY  79 

score  of  religion.  The  omission  of  the  administra- 
tion of  the  Sacrament  after  the  anointing  and 
crowning  of  the  King  and  Queen  could  not  find 
favour.' 

I  asked  why  it  had  not  been  administered. 

'  Do  you  not  know,  child,'  my  master  said,  '  that 
both  King  and  Queen  are  Roman  Catholics — papists 
is  a  better  word.  There  is  dissatisfaction  in  the 
King  setting  up  the  crucifix,  and  having  celebrations 
of  the  Mass  in  his  private  chapel.  He  will  have 
need  of  all  his  wisdom  to  keep  clear  of  the  quick- 
sands around  him.  He  has  a  splendid  presence  and 
a  courtly  manner,  with  more  dignity  than  his  late 
majesty  ever  showed.  The  Queen's  face  is  very  fair, 
and  I  can  never  forget  her  serious  demeanour,  raising 
her  eyes  to  Heaven  and  apparently  wrapt  in  devotion 
rather  than  thinking  of  the  splendour  of  the  robes 
with  which  she  was  clothed  and  the  jewelled  crown 
set  on  her  head.  A  gentleman  about  Court  told  me 
that  the  change  in  manners  there  is  much  for  the 
better.  Sunday  evening  acting,  with  gaming  and 
profaneness,  is  stopped;  and  the  Duchess  of  Ports- 
mouth— she  who  gave  the  name  of  "  Fubbs  "  to  the 
yacht  in  which  all  aboard  nearly  lost  their  lives — has 
been  made  aware  she  must  keep  her  distance  from 
the  Queen.  But  I  must  away  to  my  work ;  I  am 
getting  through  an  ode  in  honour  of  the  King,  which 


8o  IN  THE  CHOIR  OF 

asks,  "  Why  are  all  the  Muses  mute  ?  "  I  must  tune 
my  lyre  and  wake  it  to  some  purpose.  But  it  is  but 
yesterday  my  ode  to  welcome  King  Charles  to 
Whitehall  was  sounding  in  this  house  as  I  played 
it  for  you  to  hear,  my  Frances.  Poor  King !  he  has 
left  behind  him  sore  hearts,  for,  with  all  his  faults, 
he  was  winsome  to  those  he  favoured.  Master 
Gostling  is  one — and  here  he  comes  to  tell  you  as 
much.' 

'  Ay/  Mr  Gostling  said,  throwing  himself  down  on 
a  vacant  chair.  '  Ay,  I  have  lost  a  good  friend  in 
King  Charles — always  in  a  merry  mood  and  full  of 
jests.  He  called  me  his  gosling,  whose  deep-toned 
voice  he  preferred  to  that  of  the  shrill  nightingale. 
I  have  the  silver  egg  the  King  gave  me  full  of 
guineas,  to  keep  him  and  his  gracious  kindness  to 
me  ever  in  remembrance.  Not  the  guineas — they 
have  gone  the  way  of  all  my  money,  which  burns 
in  my  pocket  till  it  is  spent.  I  must  always  grieve 
that  His  Majesty  never  lived  to  hear  the  anthem 
which  commemorates  our  deliverance.  Let  us  have 
it  now,  my  good  friend,  and  it  will  please  me  to 
think  how  it  would  have  pleased  him  for  whom  it 
was  written.' 

'No,  no!  not  to-night,  Gostling.  Come  with  me 
and  hear  what  you  can  say  in  praise  of  my  new 
ode.' 


WESTMINSTER  ABBEY  81 

'A  new  ode  for  a  new  king!  Ay!  well-a-day,  so 
goes  this  changing  world.  But  mark  me,  Purcell, 
you  will  have  to  write  more  odes  in  praise  of  yet 
newer  kings  ere  many  years — it  may  be  months — 
have  rolled  over  your  head.' 

'You  are  always  given  to  prophecy/  Mr  Purcell 
said,  'and  your  prophecies  don't  often  come  true. 
So  away  with  foreboding  of  evil.' 

'  Let  me  give  you  an  air  on  my  viol  di  gamba  which 
came  into  my  head  as  I  watched  that  grand  pro- 
cession file  into  the  Abbey  this  morning.' 

'No.  To  say  the  truth,  I  wish  that  vile  instru- 
ment of  yours  had  gone  to  the  bottom  of  the  sea 
when  the  waves  swept  so  much  off  the  Fubbs  in 
the  storm.' 

'A  cruel  wish,'  Mr  Gostling  said,  laughing,  'but 
happily  unfulfilled;'  and  forthwith  he  took  the 
despised  instrument  in  his  hand  and  began  to 
play  on  it. 

Mr  Purcell  put  his  fingers  in  his  ears  and  rushed 
into  the  other  parlour,  saying, — 

'It  maddens  me  to  hear  that  ziegle,  ziegle,  zieg. 
With  a  voice  like  yours,  Gostling,  I  marvel  that  you 
can  endure  to  make  a  noise  like  the  screeching  of 
owls  or  the  discordant  caw  of  rooks  and  crows.' 

Mr  Gostling  only  laughed,  and  went  through  the 
air  as  if  nothing  had  been  said. 

F 


82     IN  THE  CHOIR  OF  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY 

And  with  the  zieg,  zieg,  zieg  ringing  in  my  ears, 
I  went  to  prepare  a  warm  posset  for  Mrs  Purcell, 
before  I  went  to  my  own  chamber  to  sleep  soundly 
after  the  long  day — the  day  of  King  James's 
Coronation. 


CHAPTER    IV 

A.  D.    1686 

THERE  was  for  me,  who  had  never  known  the  sweet- 
ness of  family  ties,  a  great  charm  in  sharing  in  the 
joys  and  sorrows  of  those  who  had  given  me  a  home. 

As  I  look  back  on  those  years,  I  feel  that  the 
great  events  then  startling  the  world  did  less  affect 
me  than  the  joy — soon  turned  to  sorrow — of  the 
birth  and  death  of  my  dear  master's  little  son 
Thomas,  who  stayed  but  a  few  short  days  with 
us,  and  was  laid  in  his  grave  in  the  cloisters  of 
the  Abbey. 

This  was  the  second  trial  which  had  been  sent 
my  good  friends  to  bear;  for  before  I  took  up  my 
abode  in  Dean's  Yard,  a  little  son,  baptised  John 
Baptiste,  had  been  born  and  died. 

These  losses  of  her  infants  affected  Mrs  Purcell's 
health,  and  she  was  scarce  able  to  rouse  herself 
even  to  take  pleasure  in  Mr  Purcell's  increasing 
fame. 

She  would  weep  bitterly  at  times,  and  almost 
83 


84  IN  THE  CHOIR  OF 

grudge  to  see  her  husband  entering  with  zest  into 
his  compositions,  which  followed  each  other  in  mar- 
vellous quick  succession. 

It  was  in  vain  old  Mrs  Purcell  remonstrated  with 
her  daughter-in-law,  and,  perhaps,  too  sharply  at 
times.  It  was  in  vain  that  Mr  Purcell's  young 
brother  Daniel  came  to  be  congratulated  on  his 
election  to  the  post  of  organist  at  Magdalen  Col- 
lege, Oxford. 

Mrs  Purcell  could  not  rejoice  with  those  who 
rejoiced,  and  I  saw  the  disappointment  she  caused 
day  after  day. 

'  Only  a  babe  of  a  few  days  old.  How  can  any- 
one mourn  for  him?' 

Such  was  the  question  Mr  Daniel  Purcell  asked 
me  when  he  came  down  from  a  visit  to  his  sister 
in  her  own  chamber. 

'It  is  a  real  grief  and  sorrow  to  her,'  I  said. 

'  Pshaw !  she  ought  not  to  sit  and  mope  and  cry  ; 
she  ought  to  think  of  other  folks.  Our  good  mother 
loses  all  patience  with  her.' 

'  But  her  husband  does  not,'  I  said.  '  He  is  sorely 
stricken  also,  but  has  his  music  as  a  solace,  and 
he  can  go  about  amongst  his  friends,  for  which 
Mistress  Purcell  has  not  strength.' 

Daniel  Purcell  was,  with  his  brother  Edward,  like, 
yet  unlike,  my  dear  master. 


WESTMINSTER  ABBEY  85 

There  is  a  difference  in  musicians  ;  there  are  those 
who  can  execute  well  on  any  instrument,  but  who 
never  make  those  instruments  speak. 

They  do  not  give  them  a  voice ;  for  those  who 
bring  out  their  sound  have  not  the  power  to  do  so,  for 
they  have  no  message  to  deliver.  I  have  heard  many 
perform  on  the  organ  and  harpsichord  since  the  days 
when  I  was  often  kept  spellbound  by  Mr  Purcell, 
but  never  has  anyone  thrilled  me  as  he  did.  Never 
has  anyone  awoke  in  me  a  like  feeling  of  rapture,  of 
uplifting  from  the  petty  cares,  ay,  and  sorrows,  of 
the  heart  which  I  have  been  called  upon  to  endure. 

Adelicia  Crespion  did  not  frequent  the  house  now 
that  we  were  sad.  She  hated  anything  like  gloom 
and  sorrow,  and  at  this  time  she  was  full  of  her 
admirers  and  suitors,  and  had  room  for  little  else. 
Nor  did  Edmund  Pelham  often  seek  me  out. 

Our  relations  to  each  other  were  less  and  less 
like  those  of  lovers.  Yet  we  came  to  no  explana- 
tion; and,  indeed,  what  was  there  to  explain? 

We  were  bound  by  no  promises,  and  thus  there 
was  no  promise  to  break.  Yet  how  my  heart  clung 
to  him.  How  I  longed  to  speak  the  word  which 
would  bring  a  decided  answer,  and  yet,  on  the  rare 
occasions  when  he  was  with  me,  I  was  dumb.  I 
think  I  feared  to  change  waning  affection  into 
absolute  indifference. 


86  IN  THE  CHOIR  OF 

We  heard  of  his  success  at  the  Temple ;  that  he 
was  looked  on  as  a  man  who  would  rise.  The 
Chief  Justice  had  taken  notice  of  him,  and  had  pat- 
ronised him ;  and  to  win  favour  with  Chief  Justice 
Jeffreys  was — so  it  was  thought — something  to  be 
proud  of. 

But  the  terrible  stories  of  his  cruel  judgments  on 
those  who  aided  and  abetted  the  Duke  of  Mon- 
mouth's  rebellion  made  my  heart  turn  with  loathing 
from  this  man.  He  seemed  a  monster  to  me.  And 
when,  in  the  September  of  the  previous  year,  he 
had  been  made  Lord  Chancellor,  I  was  distressed 
at  such  promotion.  Edmund  Pelham,  who  brought 
the  news  in  to  Mrs  Purcell,  laughed  at  me  for 
saying,— 

'  I  would  rather  weep  than  rejoice  that  the  Chief 
Justice  is  made  Lord  Chancellor.' 

'What!  would  you  have  had  Monmouth  on  the 
throne — the  bastard  son  of  the  late  King.  He 
has  met  a  deserved  fate,  and  so  have  all  those  who 
took  up  arms  for  him.' 

'What!  helpless  women — such  as  Mistress  Alice 
Lisle,'  Mr  Purcell  said.  'Nay,  Edmund,  I  do 
not  agree  in  that.  Jeffreys  may  be  an  able  and 
acute  lawyer,  but  he  is  cruel,  and  thirsts  for 
blood.' 

The  fate  of  the  gay  and  handsome  Duke  of  Mon- 


WESTMINSTER  ABBE  Y  87 

mouth  had  filled  many  hearts  with  pain,  yet  there 
was,  from  all  accounts,  a  want  of  manliness  in 
him,  for  he  grovelled  at  King  James's  feet,  and 
sued  in  abject  terror  for  pardon  and  for  life. 

How  widely  different  from  the  noble  bearing  of 
my  Lord  Russell  when  he  was  unrighteously  con- 
demned to  die. 

It  was  one  of  my  most  ardent  desires  to  see 
Rachel,  Lady  Russell.  I  had  invested  her  with  every 
perfection  of  form  and  features.  I  looked  on  her  as 
the  very  personification  of  loyal  wifehood.  I  caught 
a  glimpse  of  her  this  year  on  her  way  from  Court, 
where  she  had  gone  to  plead  for  restitution  of  her 
children's  rights,  which  had  been  forfeited  in  conse- 
quence of  their  father's  suffering  the  death  of  a  traitor. 
A  traitor!  the  very  name  fills  me  with  indignation 
when  applied  to  this  brave,  good  man.  As  I  said, 
I  caught  a  glimpse  of  Lady  Rachel's  face,  and  what 
beauty  she  might  have  had  was  gone. 

Her  eyes  were  bleared  and  dim  with  weeping,  and 
her  face  worn  and  haggard.  The  heavy  mourning  had 
cast  a  dark  shadow  on  it,  and  I  keep  in  my  memory 
a  picture  of  a  sad,  broken-hearted  woman,  for  whom 
life  had  lost  its  sweetness,  and  whose  happy  days 
were  ended  for  ever. 

In  this  year,  1686,  I  was  for  the  first  time  a  guest 
at  a  wedding.  Nothing  could  persuade  Mrs  Purcell 


88  IN  THE  CHOIR  OF 

to  attend  it.  She  therefore  insisted  on  my  taking 
her  place. 

Mr  Purcell  was  not  pleased  to  have  me  in  ex- 
change for  his  wife  as  his  companion  at  the  wedding 
of  Mr  William  Mountfort  and  Mistress  Susanna 
Perceval.  He  had  written  a  nuptial  song  for  the 
occasion,  and  after  the  ceremony  in  the  church  we 
all  repaired  to  the  bride's  house,  and  the  guests  at 
the  wedding  -  feast  were  entertained  with  music,  Mr 
Purcell's  song  being  sung  by  the  bridegroom,  whose 
clear,  musical  voice  rang  out  with  great  power  and 
beauty.  I  could  but  notice,  young  as  I  was,  that  there 
was  more  sadness  than  joy  in  the  bridegroom's 
demeanour,  that  Mrs  Bracegirdle  seemed  to  affect  a 
gladness  she  did  not  feel,  and  that  she  was  pestered 
by  the  gross  flattery  and  unwelcome  attentions  of 
Captain  Hill.  He  had  a  boy  with  him,  scarcely 
more  than  a  child,  richly  dressed  in  purple  velvet, 
and  ruffles  of  costly  lace.  I  asked  a  gentleman  who 
sat  next  me  at  the  board  who  the  boy  might  be. 

'  He  is  Lord  Mohun,  and  how  it  is  that  his 
guardians  can  permit  him  to  be  led  about  by  that 
man  Captain  Hill  baffles  many  who  witness  it. 
He  will  work  the  boy's  ruin.  See  now  how  he  is 
drinking  more  wine  than  he  ought,  and  how  Hill 
is  constantly  filling  up  his  cup.' 

I  watched  the  boy's  flushed  face,  and   heard   his 


WESTMINSTER  ABBEY  89 

half-drunken  laugh  at  what  my  neighbour  said  she 
knew  were  ribald  jests,  and  I  was  sorry  for  him.  He 
was  only  a  child,  but  he  had  learned  much  of  evil, 
which  left  its  mark  even  then  upon  his  face,  as  I 
learned  later,  and  by  the  machinations  of  a  man 
old  enough  to  be  his  father,  he  was  doomed  to  the 
paths  of  wickedness  and  sin. 

This  wedding  feast  is  memorable  to  me,  for  I  saw 
Edmund  Pelham  paying  court  to  a  fine  lady — an 
actress,  whose  face  was  painted,  and  who  had  bold, 
dark  eyes  which  were  darting  glances  on  all  sides. 

c  One  of  Mistress  Bracegirdle's  rivals  on  the  stage,' 
my  informant  said,  'yonder  painted  woman,  who  is 
getting  that  handsome  gentleman  into  her  toils. 
Is  he  not  the  young  man  to  whom  the  Lord  Chan- 
cellor is  giving  his  patronage?  Have  you  any 
knowledge  of  him  ? ' 

'Yes,'  I  said. 

'What  is  his  name?'  was  next  asked. 

'  Edmund  Pelham.' 

'  Ah ! '  she  said,  seeing  my  discomfiture,  for  I 
could  not  conceal  it.  '  Ah !  I  see  you  know  yonder 
gentleman  very  well — mayhap  too  well.' 

I  stiffened  at  once,  and  turning  away,  I  said, — 

'  Mr  Pelham  is  a  connection  of  my  stepmother's.' 

'  Do  not  be  affronted,'  was  the  rejoinder,  '  I  lay  a 
wager  you  have  many  suitors.' 


90  IN  THE  CHOIR  OF 

Something  in  me  made  this  sort  of  talk  hateful, 
and  at  this  wedding-feast  there  was  much  of  it  on 
every  side.  I  longed  to  get  away  from  it,  as  there 
was  no  chance  of  my  having  any  more  than  a  smile 
and  a  kind  greeting  from  Mrs  Bracegirdle. 

I  tried  to  catch  Mr  PurcelPs  eye,  but  he  was 
again  at  the  harpsichord,  and  Mr  Mountfort  was 
again  beginning  to  sing.  Then  the  company  rose 
and  the  tables  were  pushed  aside,  so  that  the  guests 
might  get  freely  about  the  room.  I  happened  to 
get  near  the  bride. 

She  had  a  very  bright,  clever  face,  and  she  was 
leaning  on  the  arm  of  a  gentleman  who  resembled 
her. 

'This  is  Mistress  Betty  Lockwood,  I  think,'  the 
bride  said  ;  '  I  have  heard  of  you  from  my  dear 
friend,  Mistress  Bracegirdle,  and  from  Master 
Mountfort  also.  I  am  glad  you  have  been  a  guest 
at  my  wedding.'  Then  turning  to  her  companion, 
she  said,  addressing  me,  'This  is  my  cousin, 
Leonard  Perceval ;  he  does  not  often  find  himself 
in  the  society  of  these  vain  folks  who  act  plays, 
which  he  disapproves  and  condemns.  Is  it  not  so, 
Leonard  ? ' 

A  pair  of  grave  eyes  were  fastened  on  me,  as  Mr 
Perceval  said, — 

'  It  is  true  that  I  would  fain  see  my  cousin  wedded 


WESTMINSTER  ABBEY  91 

to  anyone  but  an  actor ;  but  since  it  is  so,  there  is 
no  better  to  be  found  than  Will  Mountfort.' 

'  Thanks,  my  good  cousin,  for  your  praise  of  one 
who  needs  none  from  any  man — to  know  him  is 
enough.' 

The  smile  with  which  this  was  greeted  was  some- 
what sad,  I  thought,  and  Mr  Perceval  said, — 

'You  deserve  the  man,  Susanna,  who  needs  no 
praise  from  the  outside,  and,  as  I  said,  if  you 
must  wed  an  actor,  none  can  be  better  than  Mount- 
fort.' 

At  this  moment  the  bride's  father  came  up  to  her 
and  said  he  wanted  to  present  her  to  some  lord 
who  was  present,  and  whose  name  I  did  not  catch. 

Then  it  was  that  Mr  Perceval  said, — 

'  Are  you  without  an  escort  here,  Mistress  Lock- 
wood  ?  If  it  be  so,  may  I  have  the  honour  of  taking 
you  under  my  care  ? ' 

'  I  came  hither  with  Master  Henry  Purcell,'  I 
answered,  '  at  Mistress  Purcell's  request.  She  is  not 
able  to  appear  anywhere  at  present,  being  oppressed 
with  low  spirits  and  sorrow,  but —  '  I  hesitated.  It 
seemed  a  great  deal  to  ask.  However,  I  took  cour- 
age and  went  on — '  I  should  be  very  thankful  to 
return  to  Westminster,  if  you,  sir,  would  help  me  to 
do  so.  I  am  not  suited  to  a  company  like  this.' 

'  Nor  am  I,'  was  the  reply.     '  I  came  hither  at  the 


92  IN  THE  CHOIR  OF 

earnest  request  of  my  cousin,  the  bride.  But  actors 
and  actresses  are  foreign  to  my  taste.' 

I  was  about  to  add, — 

'  And  to  mine,'  when  I  thought  of  Mrs  Bracegirdle, 
who  was  still  the  object  of  my  devoted  admiration. 
'There  are  actresses,  sir,  who  are  worthy  to  be 
admired,  and  with  whom  it  is  an  honour  to  be 
associated.' 

'  Yes,'  he  said,  with  a  sigh ;  '  you  are  thinking  of 
Mistress  Bracegirdle,  and  I  assent  to  what  you  say 
as  regards  her,  but  there  are — look  yonder ! ' 

I  followed  the  direction  of  his  eyes  to  a  recess 
where  the  woman  I  had  seen  before  talking  with 
Edmund  was  now  fanning  herself  and  ogling  him 
with  her  bold  eyes. 

The  wine  had  made  her  garrulous,  and  she  was 
talking  and  laughing  loudly,  while,  to  my  surprise, 
Edmund  appeared  to  relish  her  jests,  and  laughed 
also,  toying  with  the  riband  that  was  tied  to  a  long 
tress  of  hair  which  lay  across  the  low-cut  bodice  of 
her  gown. 

*  If  he  can  care  for  such  a  woman  as  yonder 
painted  lady,'  I  thought,  'it  is  impossible  he  can 
care  for  me,'  and  from  that  moment  I  determined 
to  let  Edmund  know  that  I  held  him  by  no  pro- 
mise, and  he  was  free. 

Something,    it    may    be,  in  the   look    I    cast   to- 


WESTMINSTER  ABBEY  93 

wards    Edmund    and    his    companion    struck     Mr 
Perceval. 

'  Come  away,'  he  said  ;  '  if  you  will  permit  me  to 
do  so,  I  will  conduct  you  to  Westminster.  Where 
is  Master  Purcell's  house  situated?' 

'  In  Dean's  Yard,  close  to  the  Abbey.' 

I  drew  the  hood  of  my  cloak  well  over  my  face 
and  was  leaving  the  now  crowded  room  when 
Edmund  came  towards  me. 

'Whither  away,  Betty?  There  will  be  dancing 
soon.  Do  not  miss  the  best  part  of  the  revel.  I 
believe  you  are  a  veritable  Puritan.  If  so,  you 
should  not  wear  a  cherry-coloured  lining  to  your 
hood,'  touching  my  cheek  as  he  spoke  with  his 
finger,  adding,  '  It  is  vastly  becoming,  and  gives 
your  face  the  crimson  tinge  it  needs.' 

'It  is  a  better  tinge  than  paint  gives,'  I  said, 
with  emphasis. 

'Pshaw!  do  not  be  a  little  prude,  Bet;  it  does 
not  suit  you.' 

All  this  time  Mr  Perceval  had  stood  by,  much 
wondering,  I  am  sure,  who  it  could  be  who  thus 
made  free  with  his  remarks.  I  was  greatly  dis- 
turbed and  the  hot  colour  rushed  to  my  face.  But 
I  summoned  courage  to  say, — 

'Let  Master  Purcell  know  I  am  tired,  and  that 
Mistress  Purcell  will  need  me,  so  I  am  returning 


94  IN  THE  CHOIR  OF 

to  Dean's  Yard  under  the  escort  of  this  gentleman, 
who  is  the  bride's  cousin.' 

As  I  said  this  it  came  upon  me  like  a  thunder- 
bolt that  it  was  strange  for  me,  a  young  maiden, 
to  accept  the  safe  conduct  of  a  gentleman  who 
was  a  stranger  to  me. 

With  ready  insight  Mr  Perceval  seemed  to  read 
my  thoughts,  for  he  said,  turning  to  Edmund, — 

'  With  your  permission,  sir,  I  will  conduct  this 
young  gentlewoman  to  Master  Purcell's  house,  unless 
you  are  disposed  to  do  so.' 

I  do  not  know  what  Edmund  might  have  said 
had  not  there  been  a  great  stir  amongst  the  guests, 
and  two  lacqueys,  standing  at  the  door,  shouted  in 
loud  tones, — 

'  The  Lord  Chancellor ! ' 

And  in  came  one  of  whom  I  had  a  picture  in 
my  mind  which  was  different  from  the  reality. 

The  Lord  Chancellor  was  in  an  amiable  mood, 
and  he  bowed  and  smiled  to  the  guests  who  came 
fluttering  round  him,  anxious  for  notice. 

William  Mountfort  was  well  pleased  that  he 
should  honour  his  wedding  with  his  presence,  for 
there  was  what  seemed  to  many  a  very  extra- 
ordinary friendship  between  men  of  such  opposite 
characters. 

He  led  up  his  bride  to  the  Lord  Chancellor,  who 


WESTMINSTER  ABBEY  95 

kissed  her  on  the  cheek  as  she  made  a  low  curtsey 
to  him,  and  threw  over  her  neck  a  glittering  gold 
chain,  with  jewels  that  flashed  in  the  sunshine. 

Strange  it  is  how  the  past,  be  it  ever  so  faultful 
and  deserving  of  reprobation,  of  a  man  called  to 
some  high  office  is  forgotten. 

As  we  made  our  way  outside  the  house,  where 
there  was  a  throng  of  lacqueys  and  a  crowd  staring 
at  the  Lord  Chancellor's  grand  gilt  coach,  Mr 
Perceval  said, — 

'  It  would  seem  that  the  horrors  of  the  Bloody 
Assize  are  forgotten.' 

He  spoke  in  a  voice  which  was  audible  to  others 
beside  me,  and  a  woman  who  heard  what  he  said 
sprang  forward. 

'  Forgotten,  do  you  say !  the  Bloody  Assize  for- 
gotten !  It  is  written  on  my  heart ;  it  can  never 
die  from  my  memory,  for  yonder  wicked  man  sent 
two  of  my  young  sons  to  the  scaffold  at  Lyme, 
and  I  have  walked  over  miles  of  country  that  I 
may  curse  him,  yes,  curse  him !  And  if  I  had  the 
strength,  I  would  plunge  a  sword  into  his  body.' 

The  poor  woman's  haggard  face  was  distraught 
with  passion  and  vengeance. 

'  She  is  mad,  poor  soul ! '  a  man  standing  near  us 
in  the  throng  said.  '  She  hurled  her  curse  at  my 
lord  as  he  passed  in ;  he  took  no  heed  of  it.' 


96  IN  THE  CHOIR  OF 

f  Not  he,'  said  another ;  '  he  is  used  to  'em — likes 
'em  better  than  blessings,  maybe.' 

Mr  Perceval  drew  me  through  the  crowd  to  an 
empty  space,  and  then  I  said, — 

'  Can  nought  be  done  for  that  poor  woman  ? 
Her  terrible  face  will  haunt  me ! ' 

'She  is  one  of  many  like  sufferers,'  Mr  Per- 
ceval said.  '  I  am  glad  to  get  away  from  the  sight 
of  that  arrogant  man,  and  William  Mountfort's 
attachment  to  him  is  a  marvel,  for  Mountfort  is 
tender-hearted,  and  a  man  who  is  full  of  kindness 
to  all  about  him.  But  this  union  of  opposite 
natures  is  not  infrequent,  of  which  fact,  madam, 
you  are  too  young  to  have  had  much  experience.' 

I  was  glad  when  I  reached  Dean's  Yard,  and 
hoped  to  get  into  Mr  Purcell's  house  without 
meeting  anyone.  I  was  not  so  fortunate,  for 
Adelicia  Crespion  was  coming  across  from  the 
Chanter's  house,  and  waved  her  hand  to  me.  How 
provoked  and  indignant  I  felt  when  she  said,  as 
she  passed  me,  in  a  voice  which  was  quite 
audible, — 

'Ah!   a  new  suitor.     Where  is  the  old  one?' 

If  Mr  Perceval  heard,  he  took  no  heed  of  what 
Adelicia  said.  He  bowed  low,  and,  with  his  hat  in 
his  hand,  addressing  me,  said, — 

'  I  will  wish  you  good  day,  madam ;  having  seen 


WESTMINSTER  ABBEY  97 

you  safely  to  your  home,  my  services  are  no  longer 
needed.' 

If  I  had  not  been  seized  with  my  accustomed 
dumbness  or  diffidence,  I  should  have  thanked  Mr 
Perceval  for  his  kindness,  and  I  should  have  begged 
him  to  come  in  and  see  Mrs  Purcell;  but  I  did 
neither,  and  stood,  like  the  confused  idiot  I  was, 
watching  the  tall  figure  disappear  under  the  gate- 
way of  Dean's  Yard. 

Adelicia's  laugh  was  but  natural. 

'  Well-a-day ! '  she  said,  '  it  was  like  a  scene  in  a 
play  to  see  you  standing  tongue-tied  as  my  fine 
gentleman  made  his  bow.  Who  is  he?  He  has 
no  beauty  to  boast  of,  and  his  coat  was  not  cut 
after  the  fashion,  and  his  cloak  is  too  long.  Have 
you  lost  your  tongue,  child  ? ' 

'  I  am  angry  with  myself,  and  with  you  for  laugh- 
ing at  me;  but  I  must  really  go  in  now,'  I  said, 
lifting  the  latch  of  the  door. 

'  I  am  coming  in  also.  I  have  a  lot  to  say  to  you, 
Betty.' 

The  woman  who  had  of  late  come  to  help  in 
the  household  since  Mrs  Purcell's  illness  now  came 
into  the  passage. 

'The  mistress  is  asleep,'  she  said.  'She  has 
had  a  visit  from  the  old  dame,  the  master's 
mother  and  that  always  brings  about  a  fit  of 

G 


98  IN  THE  CHOIR  OF 

megrims.      She  is  quiet   now ;    don't   go  and  wake 
her.' 

I    went   into   the   parlour,   followed    by   Adelicia, 
who  flung  herself  on  the  settle,  saying, — 

'  I  am  sick  of  the  world ;  sick  of  everything ;  sick 
of  myself.' 

'You  do  not  look  as  if  this  were  true,'  I  said. 
'You  look  well  enough,  and  content,  too.' 

Instead  of  answering  me,  Adelicia  said, — 

'  How  is  it  with  you  and  Edmund  Pelham  ? ' 

This  was  a  hard  question. 

'We  are  friends/  I  said. 

1  Friends  !  Pshaw !  You  are  lovers.  Don't  be  a 
fool,  Betty;  tell  me  the  truth.' 

Thus  pressed,  I  said, — 

'  What  is  your  reason  for  wishing  to  pry  into  my 
affairs  ? ' 

'That's  a  queer  thing  to  ask  me,  when  we  have 
been  friends  all  this  time/ 

'  I  have  not  seen  much  proof  of  your  friendship  of 
late/  I  said.  '  You  have  scarcely  acted  like  a  friend.' 

'  Do  you  know  why  ? '  and  to  my  surprise — my 
great  surprise — Adelicia  burst  into  tears.  '  Do  you 
know  why?  It  is  because,  if  I  had  sought  you  out 
often,  I  should  have  had  worse  fits  of  remorse  than 
I  have,  which  need  not  be.  A  worse  traitor  than 
I  am  can't  exist.' 


WESTMINSTER  ABBEY  99 

I  did  not  really  understand  what  Adelicia  meant, 
but  a  light  began  to  dawn  on  me.  A  traitor ! 
What  did  she  mean? 

'Well/  I  said,  'tell  me  how  you  have  been 
treacherous  to  me.' 

'  I  have  let — I  have  liked — I  have  been  happy  to 
suffer  Edmund  Pelham  to  make  desperate  love  to 
me.  There,  it  is  out  now;  hate  me,  despise  me  as 
you  will;  you  know  the  truth.' 

Now,  however  much  a  woman  may  assure  herself 
that  she  sees  a  love  once  fervent  for  her  waning, 
and  assure  herself  also  that  she  is  ready  to 
accept  with  a  good  grace  what  is  inevitable,  it  is 
ever  a  bitter  lesson  for  her  to  learn.  And  it  was 
still  more  bitter  in  my  case,  when  the  main  cause 
of  Edmund's  declining  love  for  me  was  the  fact 
that  all  these  months  he  had  acted  a  double  part. 
Why  had  he  not  been  honest  and  told  me  that 
he  had  seen  in  Adelicia  one  more  suited  to  him 
than  I  was?  After  all,  we  were  bound  by  no 
promise,  and  he  need  not  have  put  me  off  as  he 
had  often  done,  and  persisted  that  I  was  his  dear 
little  Betty,  whom  he  loved  still. 

Adelicia  rocked  herself  to  and  fro,  and,  as  I  did 
not  speak,  she  sobbed  out, — 

'  I've  not  told  you  all.  My  uncle  wants  me  to 
marry  an  old  prebendary,  Master  Berkeley.  He 


ioo  IN  THE  CHOIR  OF 

thinks  this  an  honour  for  me,  and  the  Dean  approves, 
and  gave  me  his  blessing  t'other  night.  The  notion 
of  it !  I  want  none  of  his  blessing,  though  he  is 
a  Bishop  and  Dean  in  one.  But,  Betty — dear,  sweet 
Betty — I  am  in  such  a  strait ;  help  me  out  of  it.' 

'  How  can  I  help  you  ? '  I  said  coldly. 

'  By  telling  Edmund.1 

'What  am  I  to  tell  him?' 

'  That  I  don't  want  to  marry  old  Berkeley.' 

'  And  you  do  want  to  marry  him.'  I  felt  at  this 
time  nothing  but  contempt  for  Adelicia — so  mean, 
so  pitiful  did  her  conduct  seem.  But  I  controlled 
myself,  and  only  said,  '  I  will  do  your  bidding.  And 
now  I  must  go  to  Mistress  Purcell,  for  I  have 
been  about  all  day,  and  she  will  want  me.' 

c  And  you  will  not  kiss  me,  nor  forgive  me, 
Betty  ? ' 

'  We  will  not  speak  of  forgiveness,'  I  said,  '  nor, 
indeed,  of  anything  more  now.' 

'  You  are  cruel,'  Adelicia  sobbed.  '  I  did  not 
think  you  would  be  so  cruel.' 

I  left  the  parlour,  and  Adelicia  to  her  own  re- 
flections, which  could  not  have  been  very  agreeable 
ones,  methinks. 

Mrs  Purcell  wanted  to  hear  of  the  wedding,  and 
whether  Mr  Purcell's  song  received  the  praise  it 
deserved. 


WESTMINSTER  ABBEY  101 

'  I  do  not  like  these  actors  and  actresses,'  Mrs 
Purcell  said,  'and  I  would  that  Henry  had  less  to 
do  with  them.  They  keep  him  out  late  at  night, 
and  he  is  always  at  their  beck  and  call  to  com- 
pose for  them.  William  Mountfort  is  the  best  of 
them.' 

'  And  Mistress  Bracegirdle,'  I  said.  '  You  should 
have  seen  her  to-day.  It  is  not  that  she  is  so 
beautiful  that  few  can  compare  with  her,  but  she 
has  the  purest  face,  and  eyes  that  are  as  clear 
as  the  heavens  above.' 

'  You  always  talk  of  Mistress  Bracegirdle  as  if 
she  were  an  angel,  child.  If  she  is,  she  has  caused 
much  mischief  by  her  angelic  beauty,  and  will 
cause  more  ere  she  has  done.' 

'  I  think  she  has  done  good — more  good  than 
harm  —  but  then  I  know  nothing  of  the  world, 
actors  or  others.' 

'  She  makes  wives  unhappy  when  they  see  their 
husbands  enthralled  by  her  beauty  and  acting,  as 
many  are.' 

I  wondered  if  she  meant  to  refer  to  my  dear 
master.  Surely  not,  for  we  soon  heard  his  step 
on  the  stairs,  and  he  came  in  with  his  arms 
outstretched,  saying, — 

'  How  is  my  sweet  heart  ? — better,  I  trust.  I 
missed  you  sorely  at  the  wedding  feast ;  and  this 


102  IN  THE  CHOIR  OF 

little  Betty  ran  off  with  a  gentleman,  the  bride's 
cousin,  though  she  calls  him  brother.' 

'  An  actor  also,  no  doubt.' 

'  Nay,  a  deacon  in  the  Church ;  so  you  are  wrong, 
Frances.  I  hear  he  is  soon  to  be  fully  ordained, 
and  will  have  a  cure  in  Hertfordshire,  which  has 
been  promised  him  by  the  patron.  No,  no,  Betty 
did  not  run  off  with  an  actor  this  time,  though 
we  cannot  tell  what  she  may  do  some  fine  day. 
Eh,  Betty?' 

'  I  think  actors  may  be  as  good  as  any  other 
men,'  I  said.  '  Master  Mountfort  surely  is  good.' 

'Ay,  that  he  is,  but  he  has,  like  most  of  us,  two 
sides  to  him.  The  side  which  makes  him  the  sworn 
friend  of  Jeffreys  is  one  I  do  not  understand.  But 
the  friendship  betwixt  them  seems  thicker  than  ever. 
To-day  the  Lord  Chancellor  strutted  about  with 
his  hand  in  Mountfort's  arm,  filling  some  of  the 
sycophants  who  were  hanging  about  with  envy. 
Now  I  must  away  to  make  progress  with  my  ode 
to  King  James,  and  call  the  tuneful  Muses  to  my 
aid.  Verily  is  it  true  the  King  never  dies,  and  so 
we  poor  musicians  know,  for,  Charles  or  James,  it  is 
all  the  same — we  must  commemorate  the  reigning 
monarch  as  soon  as  we  have  buried  the  dead  out 
of  our  sight.  They  tell  me  my  wild  "  Lillibullero  " 
is  much  liked.  I  heard  an  urchin  in  the  street 


WESTMINSTER  ABBEY  103 

shouting  the   tune   and   stamping  his  clogs   to   the 
time.' 

'  Lillibullero '  Mr  Purcell  hummed  as  he  ran 
downstairs. 

He  was  so  young  and  joyous  in  those  years,  full 
of  spirit,  not  yet  quenched  by  weakness  of  body, 
which  came  to  him  all  too  soon,  and  which  gave  to 
his  later  compositions  a  vein  of  sadness  the  earlier 
themes  did  not  know. 

I  did  not  see  Edmund  Pelham  for  some  days, 
and  I  heard  no  more  of  Adelicia.  But,  as  I  was 
hastening  across  Dean's  Yard  from  evensong  one 
day,  I  heard  steps  behind  me,  evidently  of  some- 
one who  would  fain  overtake  me.  In  another 
moment  the  Chanter,  Mr  Crespion,  was  at  my 
side. 

'  Mistress  Lockwood,  I  desire  a  few  words  of  con- 
versation with  you.  Be  so  obliging  as  to  step  into 
my  house.' 

It  may  seem  strange,  but  it  is  true,  that  the  Abbey 
dignitaries  held  themselves  very  much  apart  and 
above  those  not  connected  with  the  august  body  of 
Dean  and  Chapter.  It  will  be  said  that  my  dear 
master,  holding  the  position  of  organist,  was  really 
a  member  of  that  body.  It  is  true ;  but,  indebted  as 
the  Chapter  (as  it  was  called)  was  to  the  genius  of 
their  organist,  they  made  him  understand  there  was 


io4  IN  THE  CHOIR  OF 

a  gulf  fixed  between  them  and  him.  He  was  their 
paid  servant,  and  had  to  do  their  bidding. 

'Step  in,  Mistress  Lockwood,'  the  Chanter  said, 
taking  off  his  shovel  hat  and  giving  his  surplice  into 
the  care  of  his  servant,  for  the  Chanter  and  pre- 
bendaries always  robed  in  their  own  houses,  and 
walked  to  the  Abbey  in  their  surplices  over  their 
cassocks.  'Step  in.'  And  then,  opening  the  door 
of  a  dark  parlour,  Mr  Crespion  said,  '  Be  seated.  I 
think  you  are  well  acquainted  with  my  niece, 
Mistress  Adelicia  Crespion  ? ' 

'  Yes,  sir  ;  that  is  the  case.' 

'  She  is  giving  me  much  trouble  and  anxiety.  She 
has  a  suitor  of  whom  I  approve,  and  I  am  proud 
to  say  his  Lordship  of  Rochester,  who  is  also  the 
valued  Dean  of  this  Abbey  of  Westminster,  gives 
his  sanction  to  the  union.  But  I  grieve  to  say  my 
niece  is  contumacious,  and  vows  she  will  not  wed 
with  Master  Berkeley.  It  is  madness,  sheer  madness. 
She  has  not  a  penny  piece  in  the  world,  and  yet 
refuses,  nay,  scoffs  in  an  unseemly  manner,  at  the 
good  and  worthy  gentleman  who  does  her  the  honour 
to  seek  her  for  his  wife.  Now  I  ask  you,  Mistress 
Lockwood,  to  do  your  utmost  to  convince  this  little 
vixen  of  her  folly,  and  assure  her,  if  she  persists  in 
disobeying  my  commands,  I  cannot  permit  her  to 
remain  under  my  roof.  I  ask  you,  therefore,  to  do 


WESTMINSTER  ABBEY  105 

my  bidding  to  the  best  of  your  power,  and  persuade 
Adelicia  to  yield  consent  to  my  wishes.' 

As  usual,  my  words  were  slow  in  coming,  and  I 
was  sorely  puzzled  to  know  what  I  should  say  to  the 
reverend  gentleman,  who  stood  with  his  cassock 
turned  over  one  arm,  and  with  the  other  patting 
his  bag-wig,  which  had  got  a  bit  awry  when  he  re- 
moved his  hat. 

'  I  have,'  he  went  on,  '  a  true  regard  for  Master 
Henry  Purcell,  and  I  take  it  you  are  of  kin  to  him, 
and  that  I  may  trust  you  to  endeavour  to  break  this 
foolish  young  woman's  obstinate  will.' 

'  I  am  not  of  kin,  sir,'  I  replied,  '  to  Master  Henry 
Purcell.  I  came  to  his  house  by  the  intervention  of 
Master  Gostling.' 

'  Ah,  a  good  friend  of  mine,  with  a  voice  such  as 
has  rarely  sounded  in  the  Chapel  Royal.  But  pro- 
ceed.' 

'  I  came,  sir,  from  a  home  which  was  scarce  a  home 
by  reason  of  a  harsh  stepmother,  to  be  of  service 
to  Mistress  Purcell,  who  has  indifferent  health.' 

1  Yes,  yes,  poor  woman.  Those  infants  of  hers  are 
only  born  to  die.  So  you  are — a — a — well,  what  in 
a  large  household  of  the  nobility  we  call  a  lady-in- 
waiting.' 

'  I  have  no  such  post,  sir ;  I  assist  in  all  domestic 
matters  which  fall  to  me,  and  it  is  my  highest 


to6  IN  THE  CHOIR  OF 

pleasure  to  do  what  I  can  for  those  who  are  very 
good  to  me.  Moreover,  there  is  the  music  ;  it  is  a 
rich  reward  to  live  in  a  home  where  the  air  is  full 
of  music — and  such  music  ! ' 

The  Chanter  smiled  benignly  on  me. 

'  Ah ! '  he  said,  'and  what  instrument  do  you  play  ? ' 

'  I  have  learned  the  harpsichord,  sir,  by  my 
master's  goodness  in  now  and  again  giving  me 
instruction;  but  I  have  but  little  time  to  spare, 
and  what  time  I  have  I  give  to  making  copies  of 
Master  Purcell's  score.' 

We  had  wandered  away  from  the  subject  which 
was  uppermost  in  our  minds,  and  the  Chanter  said, 
somewhat  pompously, — 

I  My  niece  must  make   a  marriage  fitted  to ' — he 
hesitated  a  little,  and  gave  a  short  cough — '  fitted,  I 
say,  to  my   position,  which,   you   are   aware,   is   an 
important  one,  as  Chanter   of  the  Abbey  of  West- 
minster.    I  fear  my  niece  has   taken   some   foolish 
fancy  into  her  head,  and  I  shall  be  obliged  to  you 
to  discover  what  it  is,  and  report  it  to  me.' 

I 1  venture  to  say,  sir,  that,  with  all  due  respect  to 
you,  I   should   not   covet   the   office  of  finding   out 
Mistress   Crespion's    intentions,   in   order  to    report 
them  to  you.' 

1  Indeed  ! '  the  Chanter  said,  with  added  dignity. 
'  Indeed !  Then  this  interview  is  fruitless,  and  I 


WESTMINSTER  ABBEY  107 

must  wish  you  good-evening.  Make  my  compliments 
to  Mistress  Purcell,  and  say  I  wish  her  better  health.' 

I  retraced  my  steps  across  Dean's  Yard  with  some 
uneasiness.  Had  I  acted  aright — and  was  it  wrong 
on  my  part  to  leave  the  Chanter  in  ignorance  of  what 
I  knew — that  Adelicia  was  in  love  with  Edmund 
Pelham  ? 

I  had  half  determined  to  go  back  and  say  I  had 
a  notion  of  the  obstacle  which  lay  in  the  way  of 
Adelicia's  acceptance  of  Mr  Berkeley's  suit,  when 
the  person  most  interested  in  the  matter  came 
gaily  towards  me. 

'How  fares  it  with  you,  Betty?'  Edmund  said. 
'  I  swear  I  never  saw  you  look  better  than  at  the 
wedding — William  Mountfort's  wedding.  I  came 
with  a  request — that  you  will  allow  me  to  conduct 
you  to  the  theatre  on  the  morrow,  to  see  the  fair 
Bracegirdle  as  Ophelia  in  "  Hamlet."  You  used 
to  recite  poor,  distraught  Ophelia's  speech  in  the 
days  when  I  first  read  the  play  to  you —  Well, 
what  is  wrong?' 

'  I  have  something  that  I  must  say  to  you,  Edmund. 
Dearly  as  I  should  love  to  see  Mistress  Bracegirdle 
as  Ophelia,  I  cannot  come  to  the  theatre  with  you.' 

'  Now,  I  vow  you  shall  come.  Do  not  turn 
Puritan,  Betty,  and  scout  immortal  Shakespeare  as 
an  agent  of  the  Evil  One.' 


lo8  IN  THE  CHOIR  OF 

'If you  will  step  into  the  parlour  I  will  give  you 
some  reasons  other  than  those  you  imagine  for  my 
refusal  of  your  request' 

1  They  must  be  good  ones,  or  I  will  not  entertain 
them.' 

By  good  fortune  the  parlour  was  empty. 
There  was  a  choir  practice  proceeding  in  the 
opposite  room,  and  there  will  never  be  a 
moment  in  my  life  when  the  air  of,  '  Ah ! 
how  sweet  it  is  to  love,'  from  the  music  by 
Mr  Purcell  for  Dryden's  tragedy,  'Tyrannic  Love,' 
will  not  awake  the  remembrance  of  the  time 
when  Edmund  Pelham  stood  before  me,  as  I 
said, — 

'  I  hear  from  Adelicia  Crespion — ' 

Immediately  his  face  grew  pale,  but  he  inter- 
rupted me  by  saying, — 

'  What !  Has  she  been  filling  your  mind  with  one 
of  her  romances?' 

'  It  is  no  romance,'  I  said  ;  'it  is  unvarnished  truth. 
She  tells  me  you  have  been  for  months  at  her  feet 
as  her  lover.' 

'  One  of  many  if  I  have,'  he  said  lightly. 

'  However  that  may  be,  you  are  the  favoured 
suitor,  and  she  is  obstinately  refusing  to  wed  a 
gentleman  chosen  for  her  by  her  uncle — his  reverence, 
the  Chanter,  Master  Crespion: 


WESTMINSTER  ABBEY  109 

'  May  I  venture  to  inquire  where  you  have  gained 
this  intelligence  ? ' 

'From  her  own  lips  as  to  your  love  for  her,  and 
from  Master  Crespion  as  to  her  refusal  to  marry 
Master  Berkeley.  There  can  be  no  mistake  in  the 
matter,  Edmund.  I  only  desire  to  see  you  free  from 
any  tie  that  may  have  existed  between  us.  I  know 
you  were  not  bound  to  me,  and  yet,  without  a  pro- 
mise given,  I  had  faith  in  you,  and  in  the  love  you 
professed  to  entertain  for  me.' 

I  began  to  fear  I  should  break  into  tears,  and  this 
would  have  been  humiliating,  so  I  hastened  to  come 
to  an  end  of  what  I  had  to  say. 

It  was  notable  that  Edmund  was  really  unable 
to  make  any  defence.  I  can  pity  him  as  I  re- 
member now  how  he  stood  toying  with  the  riband 
of  his  sword-hilt  and  with  a  look  of  set  defiance 
on  his  handsome  face,  turning  on  me  now  and 
again  glances  from  his  lustrous  eyes,  which  were 
more  angry  than  reproachful. 

'  So  be  it,'  he  said  at  last.  *  I  befriended 
you,  Betty,  when  you  were  friendless.  I  did 
my  utmost  to  see  your  gifts  of  mind  and  in- 
tellect, which  were  neglected  by  your  stepmother, 
cultivated.' 

'  I  know  it,'  I  said.  '  I  was  not  ungrateful,  and 
Edmund,  I  loved  you — ' 


1 10  IN  THE  CHOIR  OF 

'Then  nothing  shall,  I  swear,  come  between  us 
he  said,  making  an  effort  to  seize  my  hand. 

'Something  has  come  between  us,'  I  said.  'Do 
you  imagine  that  I  will  be  treacherous  to  Adelicia  ? 
You  must  be  mad  if  you  think  I  can  hold  to  you 
while  I  know  you  have  been  stealing  the  heart  of 
another  woman.  Only  I  thank  God  I  have  found 
out  in  time  that  truth  and  honour  are  to  you  but 
empty  names.' 

'  Upon  my  life,  Betty,  I  did  not  expect  you  to 
be  such  a  queen  of  tragedy ;  you  will  rival  the 
fair  Bracegirdle.  You  had  better  take  to  the 
stage.  Well,  I  take  my  dismissal,  and  must  needs 
do  it  with  a  good  grace.' 

He   made  as    if  he   were   leaving  the  room,  and 
through  the  half  open  door  came  the  sound  of 
'  Ah  !  how  sweet  it  is  to  love,' 

sung  by  the  pure,  sweet  treble  of  one  of  the 
choristers  of  the  Chapel  Royal. 

'  Ah  !  how  sweet  it  is  to  love.'  The  words  left 
my  lips  before  I  was  aware,  and  I  added,  '  Ah ! 
how  bitter  to  be  deceived.' 

'  Wait  one  moment,  Edmund,'  I  said,  '  to  hear 
one  last  word.  Go  to  Master  Crespion  and  declare 
your  love  for  Adelicia.  Be  honest  and  true  to  her 
and  to  yourself,  and  may  God  speed  your  suit 
and  bless  you.' 


WESTMINSTER  ABBE Y  1 1 1 

I  think  there  never  was  a  revolution  of  feeling 
such  as  I  then  witnessed  and  experienced.  Edmund 
shut  the  door,  and  flung  himself  on  his  knees 
before  me. 

'You  are  an  angel,  Betty,  and  I  am  a  traitor. 
I  thought  you  but  a  child,  and  I  find  you  are  a 
woman — a  noble  woman.  Forgive  me,  Betty,  for- 
give me,  and  pray  for  one  who  is  easily  tempted. 
Do  not  be  hard  in  your  judgment,  Betty,  I  will 
do  your  bidding.  I  will  make  a  clean  breast  of  it 
to  the  Chanter.  If  he  kicks  me  out  of  his  house,  I 
shall  only  meet  my  deserts,  for  Adelicia  is  already 
my  wife.  I  married  her  secretly  yester  morning.' 

This  was  indeed  a  final  blow,  and  I  could  only 
clasp  my  hands  in  an  agony  of  entreaty. 

'  Do  not  delay,'  I  said.  '  Oh !  I  beseech  you, 
do  not  delay,  and  go  straight  to  the  Chanter's 
house.  I  pray  you  leave  me,  Edmund,  I  have  no 
more  strength  left  in  me.' 

'I  will  do  your  bidding,'  he  said, 'and  may  God 
forgive  me  for  the  wrong  I  have  wrought  on  the 
innocent.' 

So  he  left  me.  I  do  not  know  how  long  I  lay 
unconscious  on  the  settle. 

I  knew  no  more  till  I  felt  Mrs  Purcell's  gentle 
hand  on  my  forehead,  and  the  woman  who  tended 
her  loosing  my  girdle.  It  was  the  first  time  Mrs 


112  IN  THE  CHOIR  OF 

Purcell  had  come  into  the  parlour  from  her  chamber 
above,  and  I  was  distressed  to  see  how  pallid  and 
ill  she  looked. 

c  What  is  it,  Betty  ? '  she  asked.  '  You  were 
on  the  floor,  when  we  found  you,  in  a  deep 
swoon.' 

'  I  cannot  tell  you  now/  I  said,  '  not  now,'  and 
the  blessed  relief  of  tears  was  granted  me. 

Those  of  my  descendants  who  have  perchance 
seen  the  fall  of  their  idols,  who  have  known  the 
pain  of  being  deceived,  who  have,  in  the  days  of 
early  youth,  given  their  love  to  one  who  had  first 
stirred  an  answering  love  in  their  hearts,  will  know 
what  was  the  pain  I  endured.  But  let  them  take 
courage. 

This  is  a  sorrow  which  passes  like  all  earthly 
troubles  of  whatever  kind.  Such  is  the  blessed 
order  of  Him  who  rules  our  lives.  We  must 
needs  confess  that  time  heals  the  wound,  and  as 
we  look  back  on  the  past  we  often  have  cause 
to  be  thankful  that  there  is  a  'divinity  which 
shapes  our  ends,  rough  hew  them  how  we  will.' 
I  have  come  to  be  thankful  for  what  seemed  at 
first  a  grief  which  could  know  no  balm,  for  be- 
trayal is  ever  bitter,  and  is  a  sword  which 
pierces  with  a  deeper  wound  than  change  or  loss 
of  those  we  love  by  death. 


WESTMINSTER  ABBEY  113 

I  have  known  both  sorrows,  and  I  bear  my 
testimony  to  the  bitterness  of  the  first,  and  the 
consolations  which  spring  from  the  last.  Just  as 
from  a  dry  root,  apparently  dead  to  all  outward 
things,  but  wakened  to  life  once  more  by  the 
blessed  dew  from  heaven  and  the  rays  of  sun- 
shine, so  from  dead  hopes  will  often  spring  comfort 
and  blessings  which  in  hours  of  darkness  and  dis- 
tress we  little  dreamed  could  ever  be  ours  again. 


H 


BOOK    I  II 

1687— 1688 

'  Guide  your  life  towards  a  single  course  of  action,  and 
if  every  action  goes  its  due  length,  as  far  as  may  be, 
rest  contented.' — MARCUS  AURELIUS. 


CHAPTER   V 

A.D.    1687 

THIS  year  passed  without  any  great  change  to  mark 
it  in  my  life. 

The  Chanter  having  come  once  to  storm  in  a 
manner  wholly  undignified  as  to  his  niece's  mar- 
riage, accusing  me  of  complicity  therewith,  and 
even  venting  his  wrath  upon  Mr  Purcell,  we  heard 
no  more  of  him  on  that  score. 

For  some  time  he  was  disposed  to  be  mightily 
uncivil  to  Mr  Purcell,  thwarting  him  with  regard 
to  the  music  in  the  Abbey  services,  and  con- 
demning anthems  and  chants  from,  as  it  seemed, 
sheer  perversity.  For  the  Chanter  in  a  cathedral 
body  has  great  power,  as  it  falls  to  him  to 
settle  the  music  for  the  organist  and  choir.  In 
most  cases  the  Chanter's  office  is  a  mere  sinecure, 
but  it  was  not  so  in  the  Abbey  of  Westminster. 

Mr   Crespion   professed    to  be    a    judge  of   music, 

117 


n8  IN  THE  CHOIR  OF 

and  to  be  in  a  position  to  find  fault  with  the 
selections  which  were  submitted  to  him  for  ap- 
proval. My  dear  master  would  sometimes  come 
from  his  interviews  with  the  Chanter  in  great  heat 
and  vexation  ;  but  his  sweet  temper  generally  gained 
the  victory,  and  he  would  soon  forget  his  irritation 
and  resort  to  his  music,  forgetting,  maybe,  that 
his  devotion  to  it  was  often  the  cause  of  the 
Chanter's  displeasure.  Sometimes  my  master  would 
laugh  to  himself  as  he  sat  putting  into  shape  some 
new  composition,  pushing  towards  me  a  sheet  of 
score  to  copy  full  of  alterations  since  the  first  was 
made. 

He  said  one  day, — 

'His  reverence  the  Chanter  will  scoff  at  this 
"  pastoral  elegy,"  Betty,  as  he  scoffs  at  most  of  my 
compositions,  but  herein  lies  the  difference  between 
him  and  me — he  but  hears  the  music  while  I  feel 
it  Why,  did  I  lose  my  hearing  to-morrow,  which 
God  forbid !  I  could  still  compose ;  I  could  still  feel 
what  I  craved  to  make  others  feel.  I  should  yet 
have  the  secret  joy  which  thousands  of  people,  who 
pretend  to  adore  music,  know  nothing  of.  Music 
is  a  coy  mistress,  Betty,  and  gives  herself  to  those 
whom  she  holds  with  silken  fetters.  Methinks  you 
are  one  of  them,  Betty ! ' 

I  could  not  but  be  surprised  to  hear  my  master 


WESTMINSTER  ABBEY  119 

say  this — I,  who  could  play  but  indifferently  well 
on  the  harpsichord. 

'Hearken,  Betty;  too  often  it  is  not  those  who 
can  run  over  with  deft  fingers  the  keyboard  of  an 
organ  who  know  best  what  music  means.  For- 
sooth, when  Master  Gostling  fancies  he  is  making 
music  on  the  viol  di  gamba,  I  can  scarce  hinder 
myself  from  snatching  it  from  him  and  bidding 
him  use  only  the  instrument  God  has  given  him 
— his  splendid  bass  voice — in  the  place  of  zinging 
and  zilting  and  twanging  on  that  vile  viol  di 
gamba.' 

I  knew  in  part  what  my  dear  master  said  then. 
I  know  it  well  now,  for  age  has  not  deprived  me 
of  the  power  of  melting  into  tenderness  or  rising 
to  joyousness,  or  of  being  touched  to  tears  by  the 
pathos,  as  the  case  may  be,  of  which  some  music 
discourses,  apart  from  any  words  to  which  it  may 
be  wedded. 

It  was  well  for  me  in  the  year  following  the 
treachery  of  my  lover  and  my  so-called  friend  that 
I  had  so  much  to  divert  my  thoughts  from  self- 
pity  in  Mr  Purcell's  house.  Many  came  and  went, 
and  amongst  them,  a  frequent  guest,  was  Mr 
William  Mountfort  and  his  wife,  at  whose  wedding 
feast  I  met  her  cousin,  Mr  Perceval. 

I  said,  and   truly,  that   this   year    1687   was   un- 


izo  IN  THE  CHOIR  OF 

eventful  as  far  as  my  own  life  was  concerned,  yet 
I  must  not  forget  that  I  saw  in  the  autumn  Mrs 
Bracegirdle  as  Ophelia,  and  so  enthralled  was  I 
with  the  personation  of  that  maiden  with  her  un- 
requited love  that  I  verily  saw  her  before  me,  and 
never  once  thought  of  Mrs  Bracegirdle.  The  lovely, 
distraught  creature  before  me,  with  the  tangle  of 
wildflowers  in  her  hair,  some  hanging  loosely  amidst 
her  beautiful  tresses,  was  Ophelia. 

Her  song — the  song  of  a  broken  heart — is  in  my 
ears  now,  not  as  I  have  heard  it  since  many  a 
time  and  oft,  but  as  it  rang  out  in  the  clear, 
sweet,  mournful  tones  of  her  who  was  then  Ophelia 
— living,  breathing  Ophelia, — 

'  They  bore  him  barefaced  on  the  bier, 
And  on  his  grave  rains  many  a  tear.' 

Then  how  she  stayed  her  song  for  a  few  moments 
and  said, — 

'There's  rosemary,  that's  for  remembrance,  pray,  love, 
remember  ;  and  there's  pansies,  that's  for  thoughts.  There's 
fennel  for  you,  and  columbines  ;  and  there's  rue  for  you,  and 
here's  some  for  me.' 

Sure,  in  the  voice  that  pronounced  these  words, 
'  There's  rue  for  you  and  some  for  me]  was  there 
the  foreshadowing  of  the  day  when  there  was  rue 
indeed  for  her  who  now  personated  Ophelia. 


121 

Tears  rained  down  my  face  as  she  broke  forth 
again  into  a  weird  chant  of  despairing  grief, — 

'  And  will  he  not  come  again  ? 
And  will  he  not  come  again  ? 
No,  no  ;  he  is  dead. 
Go  to  thy  death  bed, 
He  never  will  come  again.' 

When  they  brought  in,  with  procession  of  priests 
and  king  and  queen,  the  fair  corpse  of  Ophelia, 
lying  on  her  bier  with  all  her  tangled  tresses  and 
wildflowers  over  her  for  a  pall,  I  cried  out, — 

'  Oh !  it  is  too  pitiful !     Why  did  no  one  save  her  ? ' 

'  Silence ! '  was  the  harsh  reprimand  from  a  man 
who  sat  near  me.  '  Silence ! ' 

I  was  silent  then.  But  so  real  was  the  scene  to 
me  that  I  sat  with  clasped  hands  and  bowed  head, 
wondering  how,  between  the  acts,  the  people  could 
laugh  and  jest  and  chatter  of  a  thousand  idle 
matters. 

At  the  conclusion  of  the  play,  Mrs  Purcell  and  I 
were  bidden  to  sup  with  Mr  Mountfort  and  his  wife. 

There  we  found  Mrs  Bracegirdle,  and  as  I  entered 
she  held  out  her  hands  to  me,  saying, — 

'  Ah !  Come  hither,  child ;  your  words,  which 
reached  my  ears  as  I  lay  upon  the  bier,  were  sweeter 
to  me  than  a  thousand  plaudits.  See/  she  said,  '  I 
will  give  you  this  bit  of  rosemary  for  remembrance, 


122  IN  THE  CHOIR  OF 

but  there  shall  be  no  rue  for  you,  dear  child.  That 
is  for  me ; '  and  separating  the  rue  from  the  rest  of 
the  flowers,  she  put  it  in  her  bosom  with  a  sigh. 

The  sad  mood  soon  passed,  and  she  was  bright 
and  gay,  exchanging  jests  with  Mr  William  Mount- 
fort,  and  looking  so  beautiful  and  fair  I  could  not 
marvel  at  the  adoring  glances  cast  upon  her. 

All  wanted  to  win  a  word  or  smile  from  her, 
and  I  drew  into  the  background ;  and  it  was  Mrs 
Susanna  Mountfort  who  made  room  for  me  next 
her  on  the  bench  at  the  supper  board. 

'  You  think  yonder  lady  lovely,'  she  said,  looking 
in  the  direction  of  the  head  of  the  board,  where 
Mrs  Bracegirdle  sat,  with  Mr  Mountfort  on  her 
right  side. 

'  Yes,'  I  said.    '  Never  did  I  see  anyone  so  beautiful.1 

'  Few  have  seen  any  in  her  place  so  good  and 
pure.  I  know  her  better  than  most  folks,  and  I 
could  tell  you  deeds  of  charity  of  which  hundreds 
who  look  at  her  on  the  stage  know  nought.  I 
have  seen  her  go  forth  on  her  errand  of  mercy  in 
Clare  Market  to  succour  the  poor  and  needy,  to 
distribute  alms  to  the  old  and  feeble  ones  who  can 
no  longer  earn  their  livelihood.  At  times  my  father 
has  accompanied  her,  fearing  she  might  have  insults 
or  even  rough  handling  in  the  crowd  of  the  destitute, 
but  he  finds  she  needs  no  protection.  As  she  passes 


WESTMINSTER  ABBEY  123 

along,  the  thankful  acclamations  of  the  people  of  all 
degrees  greet  her  ears.  If  anyone  dared  to  affront 
her,  my  father  says  he  would  be  torn  to  pieces  at 
once.  Ah ! '  Mrs  Mountfort  said,  '  affronts  and  in- 
sults do  not  come  to  Mistress  Bracegirdle  from  the 
poor  and  the  needy ;  they  are  offered  by  those  who 
are  of  higher  rank.  My  husband  strives  to  be  her 
shield  and  protector  from  the  wicked  machinations 
of  evil  men.  Maybe  you  will  hear  people  say  that 
Will's  devotion  to  Mistress  Bracegirdle  is  other  than 
that  of  the  purest  friendship.  You  may  give  them 
the  lie.  My  Will  is  true  as  steel,  and  his  heart's 
love  is  given  to  me,  a  wife  who  is  all  unworthy  of 
it.  Great  changes  are  at  hand  for  us.  Will  thinks 
of  abandoning  the  stage  for  a  while  to  live  with 
the  Lord  Chancellor,  who,  in  his  gilded  state,  craves 
for  the  company  of  one  who  is  faithful  to  him. 
It  amazes  me  at  times  to  think  Will  can  be  the 
friend  of  the  Chancellor.  Many  shudder  at  the  very 
sound  of  his  name,  and  talk  of  the  Bloody  Assize 
as  a  red  stain  on  him,  which  nothing  he  may  do 
later  can  wash  away.  But  my  Will  has  the  gift  of 
ever  finding  out  the  best  in  everyone,  and  being 
blind  to  the  worst.  See ! '  Mrs  Mountfort  broke  off, 
'who  comes  here?' 

I  looked  towards  the  door,  and  saw,  to  my  distress, 
that   Edmund   and   Adelicia  were  being  introduced 


124  IN  THE  CHOIR  OF 

by  that  evil-looking  man  whose  name  was  Hill.  I 
hoped  neither  Edmund  nor  his  wife  would  discover 
me.  They  received  but  a  cold  welcome  from  Mrs 
Bracegirdle,  who  said,  in  her  clear,  ringing  voice, 
now  touched  with  disdain, — 

'To  what  am  I  indebted  for  the  honour  of  this 
visit,  Captain  Hill?  I  fear  me  you  come  in  for 
but  the  end  of  a  feast.' 

'  Which,  fairest  lady,  is  better  than  the  beginning 
of  a  fray,'  was  Captain  Hill's  rejoinder.  '  I  venture 
to  introduce  my  friends,  Master  Edmund  Pelham 
of  the  Inner  Temple,  and  his  lady.' 

Mrs  Bracegirdle  bowed. 

'  Find  places  for  this  gentleman  and  his  lady  at 
the  further  end  of  the  board,  Master  Mountfort,  and 
see  that  they  are  served  with  such  viands  as  may 
be  left.' 

Thus  it  was  that  Edmund  and  Adelicia  found 
themselves  near  me  and  Mrs  Mountfort 

I  had  not  spoken  to  either  of  them  since  they 
had  so  shamefully  deceived  me,  but  I  showed  less 
confusion  than  they  did,  I  think. 

Edmund  rallied  more  quickly  than  Adelicia.  She 
looked  so  thin  and  ill,  I  could  but  be  sorry  for  her. 
Her  cheeks  were  painted,  and  her  whole  appearance 
that  of  a  woman  of  fashion. 

She    was    dressed    fantastically,    even    in    excess 


WESTMINSTER  ABBEY  125 

of  the  mode,  and  she  flirted  her  fan  and  played 
with  her  ribands  to  hide  what  was  evident  con- 
fusion. 

Edmund  addressed  himself  to  Mrs  Mountfort, 
praised  her  husband's  acting,  spoke  of  his  friend- 
ship for  the  Chancellor,  and  said  he  had  been  so 
good  as  to  further  his  interests  by  speaking  to 
him  of  his  desire  to  succeed  at  the  Bar. 

Adelicia  rattled  on  in  a  confused  manner,  and  I 
was  at  a  loss  to  understand  what  she  meant.  She 
did  not  refer  at  first  to  the  past,  and  it  was  not 
for  me  to  do  so. 

But  just  as  Mrs  Purcell  came  up  to  tell  me  the 
time  had  come  to  take  our  leave,  Adelicia  said, 
in  a  low  voice, — 

1 1  wish  you  did  not  hate  me,  Betty.  Say  one 
good  word  to  me.  Say  you  forgive  me.' 

'  Yes,'  I  answered,  '  I  can  say  as  much  from  my 
heart;  but  there  is  an  end — ' 

'  No,  no,  not  an  end.  See  me  sometimes.  I — 
I  am  not  well.  I  have  a  bad  cough,  and  I  think 
I  am  going  to  die.' 

Edmund  had  watched  us  from  across  the  board, 
and  now,  rising,  said  hastily, — 

'  Get  into  your  hood  and  cloak,  Adelicia ;  we 
must  take  our  departure.' 

At   the   door,   where   there   was   some    confusion 


126  IN  THE  CHOIR  OF 

the  guests  calling  for  their  chairs,  and  the  link- 
boys  hustling  each  other  to  be  the  first  to  be 
hired,  I  was  next  Edmund. 

'  I  am  glad  to  see  you  looking  well,'  he  said. 
'  I  was  at  Ivy  Farm  this  day  sennight.  Mistress 
Lockwood  is  stricken  with  some  sore  disease.  You 
will  soon  be  in  possession  there.' 

'  I  do  not  understand  you,'  I  said. 

'Is  that  possible?  In  the  due  order  of  things,  at 
Mistress  Lockwood's  death,  Ivy  Farm  will  be  yours.' 

'  It  is  not  a  near  prospect,  I  hope,'  I  said.  '  Good- 
night, Edmund ! ' 

'  You  will  never  forgive  me,  I  see,'  he  said.  '  Nor 
do  I  think  I  merit  forgiveness.  As  for  Adelicia,  poor 
soul !  she  is  wearing  herself  to  a  skeleton,  whether 
from  remorse  or  disappointment  I  cannot  say.'  He 
took  my  hand  for  an  instant  in  his  own,  and  was 
about  to  kiss  it,  but  I  drew  it  away.  '  Unforgiv- 
ing,' he  murmured.  'Well,  so  be  it' 

I  remember,  as  if  it  were  but  yesterday,  how  sweet 
it  was  to  me  to  return  after  the  exciting  play  of 
'  Hamlet,'  and  the  supper  that  followed  it,  to  Dean's 
Yard. 

Westminster  has  a  peculiar  charm  for  me ;  and 
now,  in  my  old  age,  I  repair  thither  at  times  to 
think  over  my  past  life,  so  small  and  insignificant 
as  it  appears  when  compared  with  the  great  past 


WESTMINSTER  ABBEY  127 

of  kings  and  queens,  statesmen  and  patriots,  which 
in  the  records  of  the  Abbey  lay  before  me  as  in 
an  open  book. 

And  it  fell  to  my  share  to  see  laid  to  rest 
within  these  sacred  walls  those  with  whom  the 
days  of  my  youth  were  spent,  and  whom  I  held 
in  undying  love  and  reverence. 

Mrs  Purcell  had  seen  me  speaking  to  Edmund 
Pelham,  and  said, — 

'  I  marvel  that  you  should  hold  any  conversation 
with  that  man,  Betty.  Sure  he  has  proved  himself 
to  be  unworthy  of  all  respect.  That  poor  thing, 
his  wife,  has  a  sorry  time  of  it,  I  expect.  I  heard 
t'other  day  that  Master  Pelham  lives  more  in  his 
Temple  chambers  than  with  her,  who,  on  pretence 
of  her  health,  he  has  put  up  in  a  cottage  at  Putney. 
You  have  had  a  great  deliverance,  Betty.' 

If  I  had,  I  did  not  care  to  hear  it;  and  I  began 
to  praise  Mrs  Bracegirdle,  saying, — 

'  I  could  scarce  bear  to  see  her  act  often,  it  was 
so  real  to  me.' 

'Ah!'  Mrs  Purcell  said,  with  a  sigh,  'I  would 
that  Henry  felt  the  like.  The  company  of  these 
actors  and  actresses  is  not  wholesome.  They  often 
keep  him  late  at  taverns  and  coffee-houses,  where 
one  and  another  begs  him  to  set  some  song  or 
rhyme  to  music.'  And  then,  with  that  touch  of 


128      IN  THE  CHOIR  OF  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY 

pride  in  her  husband  which  was  always  there, 
though  often  hidden,  she  said,  'And  what  wonder! 
for  who  is  there  to  compare  with  him  as  a  musi- 
cian? I  think  he  is  without  a  rival,  and  so  do 
you,  Betty.' 

'  Yes,'  I  answered.  '  There  is  no  other  hand  that 
wakes  in  me  what  I  cannot  put  into  words.' 

'  No,'  Mrs  Purcell  said  thoughtfully.  '  No,  Betty, 
there  are  no  words  which  express  it.  Do  not  try 
to  do  so.' 


CHAPTER    VI 

A.D.     1688 

IT  was  a  January  day  in  this  year  that  Mr  Purcell 
came  in  to  tell  Mrs  Purcell  that  he  had  the  King's 
orders  to  compose  an  anthem,  to  be  performed  on 
the  twenty-fifth  day  of  this  month — a  thanksgiving 
day  for  the  prospect  of  an  heir  to  the  Crown,  which 
prospect  had  been  for  some  time  deemed  unlikely. 

'  I  must  do  His  Majesty's  bidding,'  my  dear  master 
said,  'though,  methinks,  it  is  a  somewhat  strange 
command.' 

Mrs  Purcell  smiled  and  said, — 

'You  can  think  of  me,  dear  heart,  as  you  write 
the  music.1 

'  Ah !  that  will  I,'  was  the  reply, '  and  the  thought 
of  our  promised  joy  shall  quicken  my  muse  and 
add  to  the  music  a  double  joyance.' 

'Be  not  too  sure  of  that/  was  the  answer,  'so 
often  has  our  sadness  been  the  quick  follower  of 
joy.' 

I 


130  IN  THE  CHOIR  OF 

'  Nay,  I  will  not  have  you  hopeless,  sweet  heart,  I 
feel  assured  God  will  grant  us  the  blessing  we  de- 
sire ;  and  so  past  sorrows  will  be  thrown  aside,  to 
be  remembered  no  more.' 

'As  if  I  could  ever  forget  our  dear  infant  boys, 
who  were  born  but  to  die,'  Mrs  Purcell  said,  when 
the  master  left  the  parlour.  'A  mother's  heart  can 
never  cease  to  mourn  for  her  lost  children,  as  you 
will  know  some  day,  Betty.' 

It  was  about  this  time  that  Mrs  Mountfort  came 
with  her  cousin,  Mr  Perceval,  who  was  now  an 
ordained  clergyman,  and  had  a  cure,  as  it  turned 
out,  not  far  from  my  old  home  of  Ivy  Farm. 

Indeed,  this  was  the  cause  of  his  coming  to  see  me. 

'  I  have  lately,'  he  said,  '  Mistress  Lockwood,  been 
called  to  minister  to  a  gentlewoman  whose  house 
lies  within  the  bounds  of  the  parish  next  to 
that  of  Barton.  She  is  the  widow  of  your 
father,  and  she  bids  me  bring  you  a  message  to 
the  effect  that  she  suffers  great  pain,  and  would 
fain  see  you  ere  she  departs  this  life.  The  house 
and  farm,  as  I  understand,  belong  to  you.  These 
children  of  Mistress  Lock  wood's  former  marriage 
have  no  right  to  them.  I  gather  this  from  her 
own  words.' 

I  was  so  greatly  surprised  to  hear  this  from  Mr 
Perceval's  lips,  and  so  amazed  to  find  he  had  aught 


WESTMINSTER  ABBEY  131 

to  do  with  my  stepmother,  that  I  was,  as  usual 
with  me  under  strong  emotion,  unable  to  frame 
any  words. 

Mr  Perceval  saw  my  distress,  which  I  doubt  not 
my  face  betrayed,  and  said, — 

'  As  far  as  I  can  trust  the  physician  who  has  been 
called  to  certify  the  opinion  of  the  village  apothe- 
cary, there  is  no  danger  to  life  for  some  time.  Her 
great  suffering  may  be  prolonged  for  many  weeks 
or  months.' 

'  Is  my  stepmother  tended  by  anyone  with  care 
and  kindness  ? '  I  asked. 

'Yes,  the  old  servant  does  her  best,  but  she  is 
untaught,  and,  it  strikes  me,  somewhat  rough  with 
her  mistress.' 

'  Where  are  the  children  ? ' 

'The  elder  ones  are  provided  for,  and,  by  the  in- 
tervention of  Mr  Gostling,  sent  to  the  docks  as 
recruits  for  the  navy,  which,  it  seems,  may  soon  be 
called  into  action.  There  is  one  girl — a  wild,  harum- 
scarum  child — but  the  boy  who  was  next  her  in  age 
is  dead.' 

'Tommy — so  full  of  pranks  and  naughty  ways 
— dead  ! '  I  exclaimed. 

'  His  mother  seems  to  have  made  an  idol  of 
him,  and  it  is  since  his  death  that  she  says  she 
has  softened  to  all  the  world,  and  chiefly  to  you.' 


132  IN  THE  CHOIR  OF 

1  Would  she  desire  me  to  go  and  tend  her  now  she 
is  sick?'  I  asked. 

'  I  think  she  would/  was  the  reply. 

I  was  in  a  great  strait.  I  felt  I  could  not  leave 
Mrs  Purcell  now  she  would  need  me  more  than 
ever,  and  I  shrank  from  going  to  Ivy  Farm  to 
put  up  with  what  I  should  have  to  suffer  there,  for 
my  poor  stepmother  had  ever  a  violent  temper 
and  dislike  to  me. 

'Think  well  over  what  you  will  do,'  Mr  Perceval 
said ;  '  and  if  I  may  venture  to  say  so,  let  me  ask 
you  to  pray  for  guidance.' 

Now  Mrs  Mountfort,  who  had  been  talking  to 
Mrs  Perceval,  said, — 

'What  solemn  talk  are  you  having  in  that 
corner?  My  good  cousin  Leonard  is  always  too 
grave  and  sober  for  his  years.  To  see  him  in  that 
cassock  and  bands  and  shovel  hat,  he  might  have 
come  out  of  the  ark.  He  thinks  us  poor  actors 
beneath  him,  and  will  scarce  give  Will  a  smile 
when  he  cracks  his  best  jokes.' 

'  These  are  not  days  to  laugh  and  be  merry,  Sue, 
or  to  weep  at  fictitious  sorrows  and  troubles.  There 
is  an  undercurrent  of  dissatisfaction  with  the  popish 
doings  of  the  King,  which  is  like  a  smouldering  fire 
that  will  burst  into  a  flame  ere  long.' 

'  It  is  ill  uone  to  meet  trouble  half  way ;  for  my 


WESTMINSTER  ABBEY  133 

part,  I  think  we  are  very  well  off  with  our  handsome, 
gracious  King,  and  a  Queen  like  Mary  of  Modena. 
Sure,  they  may  worship  God  in  their  own  fashion.' 

'  I  will  not  argue  with  you,  Susanna,  for  I  greatly 
fear  indifference  is  the  secret  of  your  tolerance. 
Broken  promises  as  to  the  maintenance  of  the  Pro- 
testant faith  are  not  likely  to  establish  confidence 
in  King  James.' 

'You  are  a  wiseacre,  I  know  full  well,  Leonard, 
and  far  above  a  poor  mortal  like  me.  You  think  me 
a  wicked  actress.  You  are  a  thorough-going  Puritan 
at  heart ;  a  pity  you  did  not  live  when  that  arch- 
traitor  Cromwell  was  in  power — you  would  have 
found  favour  with  him.  But  I  do  not  desire  to 
quarrel  with  you.  If  you  have  finished  your  errand 
to  Mistress  Lockwood,  we  will  betake  ourselves  to 
the  Haymarket,  for  I  have  a  rehearsal  to  attend,  and 
Will  never  forgives  non-appearance.' 

'  I  will  come  again  ere  long,'  were  Mr  Perceval's 
parting  words,  '  and  give  you  further  tidings  of  the 
state  of  things  at  Ivy  Farm.' 

I  laid  the  matter  before  Mrs  Purcell  as  to  whether 
it  was  my  duty  to  go  to  my  stepmother,  who  had 
treated  me  with  scant  kindness,  and  had,  after  a 
fashion,  robbed  me  of  my  rights. 

She  wept  and  mourned  at  the  notion  of  my  de- 
parture, and  I  was  in  a  sore  strait. 


134  IN  THE  CHOIR  OF 

Mrs  Purcell  talked  as  if  I  was  a  deserter,  and 
about  to  leave  her  when  she  needed  me  most. 

The  smallpox  was  on  every  hand,  she  said,  and 
she  might  fall  a  victim  any  day.  In  her  present 
circumstances  she  would  surely  die. 

I  do  not  know  how  things  would  have  been 
decided  had  not  my  dear  master  taken  my  part, 
and  at  last  it  was  arranged  that  I  should  go  to  Ivy 
Farm  and  return  before  the  time  Mrs  Purcell  looked 
for  the  birth  of  her  child.  How  much  in  all  our 
lives  hangs  upon  the  decision  we  make  on  what 
seems  a  small  matter. 

I  went  off  one  chill  February  morning  to  the 
stage  waggon  which  was  to  set  me  down  at  night  at 
the  hostel  from  which  I  had  started  four  years  be- 
fore. I  had  gone  forth  a  child  and  I  was  returning 
a  woman.  The  bitter  lesson  of  betrayal  where  I 
had  trusted  had  been  given  me  to  learn,  and  though 
the  wound  had  healed  the  scar  remained. 

The  long  day's  journey  was  uneventful,  and  I 
slept  for  the  greater  part  of  it,  being  worn  out  with 
the  pain  I  felt  at  leaving  Westminster  and  the 
sorrow  it  caused  my  good  friend,  Mrs  Purcell. 

Mr  Purcell's  mother  came  to  take  my  place  in 
some  measure,  and  resting  on  the  promise  of  my 
return,  my  dear  master  was  cheerful  and  encouraged 
me  that  I  was  doing  my  duty. 


WESTMINSTER  ABBEY  135 

Mr  Perceval  met  me  with  a  lanthorn  at  the  hostel, 
and  carried  my  bundle  for  me,  treating  me  with 
great  kindness  and  consideration. 

'  It  was  plainly  your  duty,'  he  said,  '  to  come 
hither,  and  I  am  confident  you  will  have  a  reward.' 

'  I  do  not  know  how  that  will  come  about,'  I  said. 
'  It  is  not  as  though  my  stepmother  had  been 
loving  and  good  to  me.' 

'  Ah ! '  he  said,  '  if  she  had  been  good  and  kind 
you  would  have  missed  the  reward  I  speak  of.'  I 
did  not  answer,  and  Mr  Perceval  added,  'The  re- 
ward which  is  the  crown  of  self-sacrifice.  Do  you 
not  remember  Him  who  first  showed  us  the  way 
to  win  that  crown  ?  ' 

I  gave  but  an  uncertain  assent.  My  faith  in  those 
days  was  but  dim  and  flickering,  and  I  never  could 
bring  myself  to  profess  what  I  did  not  really  feel. 

I  had  come  to  my  old  home  with  unwilling  steps, 
and  the  crown  my  friend  spoke  of  did  not  shine 
brightly  before  me  in  the  future.  It  was  rather  a 
crown  of  prickly  thorns  that  I  wore  in  the  long,  long 
weeks  when  I  watched  by  the  awful  suffering  which 
my  stepmother  was  called  to  endure.  I  had  to 
hearken  to  her  cries  of  anguish  and  her  lamentations 
and  sorrow  for  her  injustice  to  me. 

Mr  Perceval,  whose  pleasant  rectory  house  was  with- 
in a  mile  or  two  of  Ivy  Farm,  was  frequently  with  us. 


136  IN  THE  CHOIR  OF 

From  his  lips,  nay,  rather  from  his  life,  I  first 
learned  what  religion  really  meant,  and  Sunday  after 
Sunday  I  led  Madge  across  the  field  to  the  church 
where  he  ministered,  and  drew  comfort  from  what  I 
heard  from  him. 

Madge,  with  the  impetuous  ardour  of  an  undis- 
ciplined child,  conceived  the  greatest  affection  for  me, 
and  old  Rhoda  said  I  was  the  very  first  person 
whom  the  child  had  ever  obeyed. 

Poor,  wild,  little  Madge,  with  her  dark  eyes  and 
raven  hair,  with  her  russet  skin,  brown  from  constant 
exposure  to  the  air,  awoke  my  pity,  and  I  could  not 
be  insensible  to  her  devotion  to  me. 

Nothing  could  persuade  her  to  be  with  her  poor 
mother.  She  would  sometimes  look  into  the  chamber 
where  she  lay,  and  then  rush  away  again,  saying 
to  me, — 

'  I  hate  to  see  sick  folks.  And  when  Tommy  took 
ill  with  a  bad  throat  I  ran  away  and  lived  with  old 
Goody  Hodgkin  till  he  was  dead  and  buried.' 

'  And  if  you  took  ill  with  a  bad  throat,  would  you 
wish  me  to  run  away  and  leave  you  ? ' 

'  No,'  came  very  decidedly ;  '  and  I  know  you 
wouldn't  run  away.' 

'  Why  do  you  know  it  ? ' 

'  Because  Rhoda  says  you  are  an  angel,  and  angels 
are  good ;  the  parson  says  they  watch  over  us 


WESTMINSTER  ABBEY  137 

though  we  cannot  see  them.'  Then  she  broke  into 
a  sudden  ripple  of  laughter.  '  I  don't  believe  an 
angel  watches  over  me.  I  am  too  wicked.' 

'The  more  reason  you  should  want  one,'  I    said. 

'  I've  got  you'  was  the  answer ;  ' that  is  enough.' 

As  the  days  lengthened  and  the  spring  awoke,  my 
poor  stepmother  declined.  She  seemed  to  have  no 
power  to  fight  against  the  dire  disease  which  sapped 
her  strength  away. 

The  old  arrogant  temper  was  lulled  to  rest,  and  she 
became  gentle  as  a  little  child. 

She  clung  to  me  in  a  manner  that  touched  me 
beyond  words,  and  now  that  I  look  back  on  those 
days  when  I  tended  her,  I  am  thankful  I  went  to  her 
as  duty  pointed  the  way. 

And  now,  I  must  confess  that  something  sweeter 
than  aught  I  had  ever  known  before  crept  into  my 
life. 

The  constant  care  and  even  tenderness  with  which 
Mr  Perceval  surrounded  me  could  not  be  mistaken. 
And  yet,  I  dare  scarcely  trust  myself  to  let  him  know 
that  I  was  not  indifferent  to  him. 

I  could  not  forget  my  blind  love  for  Edmund 
Pelham;  how  that  night  in  the  porch,  when  he  lay 
at  my  feet,  I  believed  in  the  endurance  of  his  pro- 
mised love  for  me.  I  could  not  forget,  and,  though 
I  knew  I  had  forgiven  him,  I  likened  myself  to  one 


138  IN  THE  CHOIR  OF 

who  had  put  to  sea  in  a  ship  that  had  been  vouched 
for  as  seaworthy,  but  had  gone  to  pieces  in  the  first 
storm  it  had  encountered ;  so  that  when  again  a 
voyage  was  proposed,  the  venture  seemed  too  great, 
and  hesitation  took  the  place  of  the  assurance  with 
which  the  first  had  been  undertaken,  and  the  past 
distress  made  the  future  safety  appear  dim  and 
uncertain. 

Yet  sure  there  was  an  air  of  truthfulness  and 
honesty  in  Mr  Perceval  which  was  enough  to  calm 
all  fears  and  doubts,  yet  I  could  not  bring  myself  to 
accept  what  he  offered  me.  I  could  only  tell  him, 
with  faltering  lips,  my  story,  and  beg  him  to  be 
patient  with  me. 

'  I  will  serve  seven  years  for  you,  if  needs  be,' 
he  said.  '  I  am  content  to  wait' 

And  I  could  only  thank  him  with  tears,  and  say 
that  it  might  be  he  would  find  one  more  suited  to 
him. 

I  had  said  the  same  thing  before  with  no  sort  of 
fear  that  it  would  come  true,  and  yet  how  soon 
what  I  had  in  my  secret  heart  thought  unlikely, 
happened. 

I  had  heard  and  seen  but  little  of  Edmund  and 
Adelicia  for  the  past  year. 

Now  and  again,  as  I  have  related,  I  saw  them  when 
I  was  in  the  company  of  the  actors  and  actresses, 


WESTMINSTER  ABBEY  139 

amongst  whom  Mrs  Bracegirdle  shone  as  a  bright 
star,  but  all  intimate  communication  had  ceased. 

It  was  one  fair  spring  evening,  when  I  was  keeping 
my  accustomed  watch  by  my  poor  stepmother's  bed, 
that  Madge  came  rushing  in,  saying, — 

'  There's  a  woman  at  the  door  who  will  see  you ; 
Rhoda  can't  get  her  away.  She  says  she  is  not  a 
beggar,  for  she  has  a  fine  cloak  and  hood.' 

I  bid  the  child  send  Rhoda  up  to  take  my  place 
by  her  mistress,  and  I  would  come  and  find  out  what 
the  woman  wanted  of  me. 

'She  is  crying  and  sobbing  as  if  her  heart  was 
breaking,'  Rhoda  said,  when  I  met  her  on  the  stair; 
'  but,  Lord !  it  may  be  sham  to  get  pity.  I  can 
make  nought  of  her,  and  when  I  bid  her  begone,  she 
rated  at  me  and  said  she  would  force  me  to  let 
her  pass.' 

I  went  to  the  kitchen  door,  where  Rhoda's  hus- 
band was  keeping  guard,  with  the  old  sheep  dog 
at  his  heels.  He  made  a  grimace  at  me  and 
whispered, — 

'  You  take  care ;  she  is  only  fit  for  Bedlam.' 

I  bid  him  stand  back  and  then  I  saw  a  woman 
leaning  heavily,  as  if  from  exhaustion,  against  the 
half-  open  door,  supporting  herself  by  clutching  it 
with  her  hand. 

'  Come  in  and  rest,'  I  said,  '  and  you  shall  have 


140  IN  THE  CHOIR  OF 

a  cup  of  cider,  and  you  shall  tell  me  what  has  be- 
fallen you.' 

The  woman  unfastened  her  hood,  and  as  it  was 
loosened  I  saw  a  face  terribly  scarred  by  the  marks 
with  which  we  were  all  too  well  acquainted — the 
cruel  marks  left  by  that  scourge  smallpox,  when, 
as  but  seldom  it  spared  life,  it  printed  indelible 
and  awful  traces  on  the  fairest  countenances. 

'  Betty !  Betty ! '  she  gasped,  '  do  you  not  know 
me?  No,  no,  how  should  you  know  me  as  I  am?' 

The  voice — though  even  that  was  changed,  and 
had  a  rasping  sound  in  it — the  voice  brought  back 
to  me  Adelicia. 

'Come  in/  I  said,  'come  to  the  parlour;'  arid 
going  out  from  the  kitchen  I  led  her  round  to  the 
porch  and  thence  to  the  parlour,  now  so  little  fre- 
quented, and  bid  her  rest  on  the  settle  while  I 
fetched  some  wine. 

'  Oh,  Betty  !  Betty ! '  she  moaned,  '  I  want  to  die, 
not  to  live ;  but  I  thought  I  must  see  you  first,  and 
pray  you  to  pardon  me.  See,  my  feet  and  gown 
are  wet.  I  was  just  stepping  into  yonder  mill 
stream  when  I  thought  I  would  see  you  first. 
Betty !  Betty !  pity  me  and  forgive  me.  I  have  had 
my  punishment.  He  turns  from  me  with  loathing. 
He  fled  when  I  sickened,  and  a  week  ago,  when  the 
surgeon  said  I  was  well,  I  sent  for  him.  I  thought 


WESTMINSTER  ABBEY  141 

he  would  be  glad — might  be  glad — I  was  alive ;  but 
oh !  his  look  when  he  saw  me !  It  will  haunt  me 
in  the  next  world — such  a  look.  He  said,  "Why 
did  you  send  for  me  ?  You  are  not  well.  I  dread 
to  catch  this  awful  disease.  I  will  send  you  money 
to  get  all  you  need,  but  I — "  I  scarce  knew  what 
more  he  said  ;  I  felt  dazed  with  my  sorrow.  I  cried, 
"  Edmund  !  Edmund  ! "  but  he  had  left  the  chamber, 
and  the  woman  who  had  remained  in  the  house  to 
tend  me  found  me  in  a  swoon,  from  which  she 
thought  I  should  never  wake.  Betty,  why  don't 
you  speak  to  me  ?  What !  sure  you  are  not  crying 
for  me — sure  you  hate  me  ? ' 

I  was  too  much  overcome  to  speak.  I  went  and 
fetched  the  wine,  and  coming  back,  I  held  the  cup 
to  her  lips,  and  made  her  swallow  its  contents. 

'  What  shall  I  do  ?  What  will  become  of  me  ? ' 
she  moaned. 

'You  can  remain  here.  Come  upstairs  with  me 
and  I  will  put  you  to  bed.' 

'  You  mean  that  ? ' 

'  Yes ;  your  clothes  are  drenched  with  water ;  you 
are  worn  out  and  weary.  When  you  are  rested 
we  will  talk  of  what  it  is  best  to  do.  You  will 
catch  a  bad  rheum  if  you  do  not  get  your  clothes 
off.  Come ! ' 

I  led  her  upstairs  to  a  vacant  chamber,  of  which 


142  IN  THE  CHOIR  OF 

there  were  several  to  spare  now,  and  undressing 
her  I  put  on  her  one  of  my  night  sacques  and  laid  her 
in  the  bed.  Madge  peeped  in  at  the  door  and  said, — 

'  Is  she  mad  ?  Rhoda  says  she  is  mad,  and  I  am 
afeard  of  mad  folks.' 

'  Run  away,'  I  said ;  but  Madge  still  stood  peering 
into  the  chamber. 

'What  does  that  child  say?  Does  she  say  I  am 
mad?  Yes,  yes,  mad  with  grief  and  sin.' 

'  How  ugly  her  face  is  ! '  Madge  exclaimed  ;  '  it's 
all  pock  -  marked  like  Goody  Mercer's  husband. 
Faugh!' 

I  hustled  Madge  out  of  the  room,  and,  feeling 
very  angry  with  her,  boxed  her  ear.  She  turned 
defiantly  on  me  and,  laughing,  said, — 

1  You  ar'n't  like  an  angel  now ;  you  are  a  fury, 
but  I  don't  care,'  and  with  that  she  tore  downstairs, 
and  I  saw  her  from  the  window  flying  across  the 
pleasance  to  the  orchard  where  I  had  often  taken 
refuge  in  past  days. 

I  had  a  sore  time  for  the  next  few  days,  and 
had  it  not  been  for  Mr  Perceval  I  should  indeed 
have  been  forlorn.  He  prayed  by  my  poor  step- 
mother every  day,  and  did  the  same  kind  office  for 
Adelicia.  She  was  sick  with  a  fever  coming  on  so 
soon  after  smallpox,  which  made  it  doubtful  whether 
she  would  live  or  die. 


WESTMINSTER  ABBEY  143 

I  went  from  one  chamber  of  sickness  and  suffer- 
ing to  the  other,  and  could  scarce  have  borne  the 
anxiety  if  I  had  not  had  a  strong  arm  to  rest  on. 

My  stepmother  sank  to  her  longed-for  rest  on 
Easter  Even,  with  words  of  blessing  on  her  lips 
for  me,  and  leaving  me  to  do  as  I  felt  best  for 
poor,  wayward  Madge  and  the  disposition  of  the 
farm. 

Mr  Perceval  insisted  on  Edmund  Pelham  being 
summoned,  and  I  was  therefore  constrained  to  relate 
to  him  the  sad  story  of  his  wife,  who  lay  sick  in 
the  little  upper  chamber  above  my  stepmother's. 

A  messenger  was  despatched  for  Edmund,  and  it 
fell  to  me  to  receive  him  in  the  porch,  which,  try 
as  I  would  to  conquer  the  feeling,  ever  reminded 
me  of  the  tale  of  love  he  had  told  there,  and  of 
the  sad  sequel. 

Edmund  did  not  profess  to  feel  any  sorrow  for 
my  stepmother's  death,  and  when  I  led  him  into 
the  parlour,  said  carelessly, — 

'You  are  mistress  here  now,  Betty.  I  will  help 
you  to  settle  any  matters  which  require  legal  advice.' 

I  saw  he  was  speaking  thus  to  avoid  any  re- 
ference to  Adelicia,  nor  had  he  any  preparation 
for  the  news  of  her  being  under  the  same  roof. 

'  I  have  much  to  say  to  you,  Edmund,  about 
your  wife,  before  we  enter  into  other  matters.' 


144  IN  THE  CHOIR  OF 

'My  wife?  oh!  poor  soul,  she  has  been  near 
dying  of  smallpox.  It  has  gone  to  her  brain,  for 
she  has  wandered  in  her  speech,  the  woman  who 
tended  her  tells  me.' 

'Your  wife  is  here,'  I  said,  'under  this  roof.' 

He  shuddered  visibly,  as  if  struck  by  a  sudden 
blow. 

'Here!'   he  said.     'How  does  that  fall  out?' 

'  She  arrived  here  four  days  ago  in  a  piteous 
condition — a  broken  heart  had  led  her  to  think  of 
ending  her  sorrows  in  the  mill  stream  yonder.  By 
God's  mercy  that  grief  is  spared  you.' 

'  Poor  thing ! '  he  said,  '  she  is  so  fearfully  scarred 
by  smallpox.  It  may  be  death  would  be  welcome.' 

These  hard  words  from  the  man  I  had  once 
loved  and  trusted  smote  me  with  pain  and  in- 
dignation. 

'  How  can  you  speak  thus,'  I  said,  '  of  one  whose 
happiness  you  have  wrecked  !  one  who  was  led 
into  wrong-doing  by  you,  and  who  is  now  lying 
sick,  and  in  misery  of  mind  and  body,  under  this 
roof.  For  shame,  Edmund !  I  can  scarce  believe 
you  are  so  Changed  as  to  be  hardened  against 
your  wife.  Go  to  her  and  speak  some  words  of 
comfort  to  her,  and  try  to  retrieve  past  coldness 
by  kindness  and  sympathy.' 

'  I  cannot — I  cannot,  Betty ;   it  is  too  dreadful  to 


WESTMINSTER  ABBEY  145 

look  on  a  face  where  not  a  trace  of  the  beauty  it 
once  had  is  left.  No,  I  cannot  see  her  yet.  The 
shock,  when  I  went  at  her  bidding,  was  too  great 
to  repeat  it.  I  dread  that  pestilence  which  is  now 
walking  abroad,  with  no  respect  of  high  or  low. 
It  is  loathsome,  it  is  fearful.' 

Nothing  that  I  could  say  changed  Edmund's 
determination. 

He  was  liberal  with  his  purse,  and  said  if  I 
would  keep  his  wife,  he  would  pay  well  for  the 
care  taken  of  her.  But  see  her  he  could  not  and 
would  not. 

'You  could  never  have  loved  Adelicia,'  I  said, 
'for  real  love  is  not  affected  by  any  outward 
change  of  face  or  form.' 

'That  is  well  said  on  the  stage  or  read  in 
romances,  Betty,  but  it  will  not  be  proved  true  in 
actual  life.' 

Mr  Perceval  went  through  all  the  business  part 
of  the  affairs  with  Edmund,  and  it  was  settled  that 
the  farm  should  be  kept  on,  and  a  good  woman 
placed  in  the  house  who  would  look  after  the 
dairy,  and  be  put  in  a  position  of  authority  over 
the  labourers  till  such  time  as  I  could  return  to 
live  at  Ivy  Farm. 

This  woman,  Mrs  Turner  by  name,  had  lately 
been  widowed,  and  was  thankful  to  find  a  home. 

K 


146  IN  THE  CHOIR  OF 

Mr  Perceval  knew  her  to  be  honest  and  trusty, 
and  he  it  was  who  advised  me  in  this  as  in  every 
other  matter.  Madge  was  to  be  sent  to  board  at 
school  in  Hitchin,  and  to  return  in  the  holidays 
to  the  farm.  Poor  Adelicia  happily  asked  no 
questions  about  Edmund,  and,  indeed,  she  had 
scarce  strength  to  do  so.  She  was  prostrate  in 
mind  and  body,  a  wreck  of  her  former  self. 

The  funeral  of  my  stepmother  well  over,  and 
the  settlements  made,  I  was  eager  to  return  to 
Westminster.  The  apothecary  said  Adelicia  was 
not  now  in  danger  of  her  life,  and  I  need  not  stay 
longer  on  her  account.  I  said  as  much  to  Mr 
Perceval,  and  his  reply  was, — 

'You  desire  not  to  stay,  you  say,  on  Mistress 
Pelham's  account  But  will  you  not  stay  on 
mine  ?  You  know  how  deeply  and  truly  I  love 
you.  The  little  Rectory  of  Barton  is  only  waiting 
for  your  sweet  presence,  where,  far  from  the  tur- 
moil of  the  city,  we  may  live  in  peace,  serving  our 
Lord  and  Master.  Say,  Betty,  will  you  come  to 
me?' 

'  Not  yet !  not  yet ! '  I  pleaded ;  '  it  is  not  pos- 
sible for  me  to  leave  Mistress  Purcell  now.  I  must 
be  with  her  for  some  months  at  least.  She  and 
the  dear  master  have  been  good  and  true  friends 
to  me,  and  I  cannot  leave  them  yet' 


WESTMINSTER  ABBEY  147 

'  You  would  not  say  this,  Betty,  if  you  were  sure 
of  your  own  heart ;  you  would  not  say  this  if  you 
could  return  my  love.' 

'  I  must  wait,  I  must  wait,'  I  said  ;  '  do  not  press 
me  yet  I  am  so  grateful  to  you,  so  full  of  respect 
for  you.' 

'  That  will  suffice,'  he  said  hastily,  '  that  will 
suffice.  One  question  I  ask,  Is  there  another  man 
to  whom  you  could  readily  give  your  heart  ? ' 

And  to  this  I  answered,  with  all  sincerity,  '  No.' 

'  Am  I  giving  you  pain  ? ' '  I  questioned,  as  he 
turned  his  head  away  to  hide  his  emotion. 

'  The  pain  of  disappointment/  he  said ;  '  but  it 
will  pass.  I  will  wait,  I  will  serve,  as  I  told  you, 
seven  years  for  my  Rachel ! ' 

So  good  and  noble  was  his  nature  that  he  for- 
bore to  say  more,  nor  did  he  urge  me  to  marry 
him.  I  put  my  hand  in  his,  after  a  pause,  as 
we  stood  together  again  in  the  little  porch,  with 
all  the  freshness  of  the  spring  around  us,  the 
birds  singing  their  evensong,  and  the  ripple  of  the 
mill  stream  sounding  with  the  drowsy  tinkle  of 
the  cow-bells  as  they  went  back  to  pasture  after 
the  milking. 

Poor  Adelicia !  it  was  hard  to  leave  her,  and  I 
thought  I  should  never  have  courage  to  do  so.  I 
asked  her  if  I  should  say  aught  about  her  to 


148  IN  THE  CHOIR  OF 

the  Chanter,  her  uncle,  but  she  cried  aloud  at 
the  bare  notion, — 

'  No,  no,  I  pray  you  never  name  me  to  him ! ' 
Then  suddenly,  'Tell  me,  Betty,  tell  me  truly,  is 
my  face  less  dreadful  to  look  at  than  it  was  at 
first?' 

I  dared  not  be  untruthful,  yet  I  grieved  to  answer 
her  as  I  felt  I  must  answer  her. 

'  I  dared  not  look  in  the  glass  in  my  own 
house,  and  there  is  no  glass  in  this  chamber,' 
she  said.  '  Be  my  mirror,  Betty,  and  tell  me  what 
you  see.' 

'  I  see  the  traces  of  the  dreadful  malady  which 
spares  none  who  have  been  attacked  by  it ;  but 
time  works  wonders,  as  in  the  case  of  a  young 
choir  boy,  whom  I  often  see  at  Westminster.  His 
face  has  resumed  its  proper  colour,  and  his  eyes 
their  brightness.' 

'  And  mine !  and  mine  ! '  she  moaned.  '  My  eyes 
are  dim,  my  face  distorted;  it  is  all  purplish  red, 
and  no  one  would  know  me.  I  heard  him  murmur 
as  much.  Ah !  Betty,  what  it  was  to  me  to  see 
him  start  back  and  exclaim  under  his  breath,  "  My 
God  !  what  a  spectacle  ! " ' 

'  Do  not  give  him  another  thought,'  I  said ;  '  he 
is  unworthy  of  it.  When  you  are  recovered,  he 
shall  hear  of  it,  and,  let  us  hope — ' 


WESTMINSTER  ABBEY  149 

'  Hope !  hope !  I  have  no  hope  left  in  me.  I 
long,  yes,  I  long  to  die.' 

'  Life  and  death,  sickness  and  health,  are  in  God's 
hands.  You  have  yet  a  long  life  before  you,  and 
you  must  pray  to  God  to  help  you  to  bear  your 
trouble,  and  help  you  also  to  use  the  gift  of  pre- 
served life  for  Him.' 

So  I  left  her,  poor,  poor  Adelicia,  and  my 
heart  was  heavy  for  her.  What  had  so  changed 
Edmund  since  the  days  when  he  frequented  the 
farm,  and  protested  that  he  loved  me?  Was 
I  deceived  in  him  always?  Was  he  never  what 
I  believed  him  to  be  ?  or  was  he  changed  by 
contact  with  the  world?  He  was  flattered  and 
caressed,  and  had  been  noticed  at  Court,  and  was 
spoken  of,  Mr  Purcell  said,  as  one  like  to  rise 
to  the  highest  honours  as  a  lawyer.  His  heart 
was  hardened  against  his  wife,  and  he  seemed  to 
forget  all  the  misery  he  had  brought  on  her.  Yes, 
Edmund  Pelham  was  changed ;  and  as  I  acknow- 
ledged it  to  myself,  while  the  stage  rumbled  on 
towards  London,  I  felt  the  insecurity  of  all  earthly 
stays  and  supports,  and  tried  to  rest  on  God. 


CHAPTER    VII 

A.  D.     1688 

I  RETURNED  to  my  friends  in  Dean's  Yard  to 
share  in  the  joy  which  the  birth  of  a  little  daughter 
had  occasioned. 

She  was  baptised  in  the  Abbey  by  the  name  of 
Frances,  and,  unlike  her  little  brothers  who  were 
buried  there,  she  was  a  strong,  hearty  child.  She 
became  a  dear  delight  to  me,  and  it  was  sweet  to 
me  to  find  that  her  parents  suffered  me  to  share 
their  pleasure  with  them. 

'  You  belong  to  us  in  joy  and  sorrow,'  Mrs  Purcell 
would  say,  'and  you  must  never  leave  us.' 

It  was  necessary  for  me,  when  Mrs  Purcell  spoke 
thus,  to  tell  her  that  Mr  Perceval  was  my  suitor, 
and  would  fain  have  me  for  his  wife. 

'  Not  yet — not  yet,  Betty ;  we  cannot  spare  you  ; 
you  must  not  leave  us  yet* 

'  No,'  I  replied.  '  I  have  no  present  wish  to  do 
so,  but  I  felt  it  right  to  tell  you  that,  if  I  wed  any 

150 


IN  THE  CHOIR  OF  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY    151 

man,  it  will  be  Master  Perceval,  unless,  I  added, 
'he  should  change  and  no  longer  desire  me  for 
his  wife.' 

'Well,  well,'  Mrs  Purcell  would  say,  'it  is  right 
for  you  to  have  a  prospect  of  marriage.  There 
have  been  several  of  our  friends  who  would  fain 
find  favour  in  your  eyes.  Now  they  can  be  assured 
that  your  hand  is  promised.  Master  Perceval  is 
too  solemn  for  my  taste,  and  I  think  is  severe 
on  Susanna  Mountfort  for  her  gaiety  and  her 
association  with  actors.  However,  the  people  are 
now  too  full  of  apprehension  to  frequent  the 
theatres,  and  William  Mountfort  has  actually  given 
up  the  stage  for  the  time  to  live  hard  by 
with  the  Chief  Justice,  who,  it  is  said,  is  falling 
into  disfavour  with  the  King.' 

I  said  at  the  outset  of  the  story  of  my  life  that 
I  had  nothing  that  was  startling  in  my  experience 
to  record,  but  that  I  had  been  brought  into  contact 
with  other  lives  which  were  remarkable. 

This  month  of  May,  which  had  brought  joy  to 
my  dear  master  and  his  wife,  was  fraught  with 
grave  events  for  the  Church  and  people  of  England. 

I  can  never  forget  the  day  when  one  of  the 
prebendaries  came  hastily  in,  saying  that  the  De- 
claration for  giving  liberty  of  conscience  was  to  be 
read  in  the  Abbey  by  the  Dean's  order,  but  there 


152  IN  THE  CHOIR  OF 

was  scarce  another  church  where  it  would  be 
read,  the  feeling  against  it  was  so  strong ;  and 
no  wonder.  It  was  in  reality  a  cover  for  the 
giving  the  Papists  full  licence,  and  the  others — 
dissenters  and  the  like — were  only  mentioned  as 
a  make-weight. 

'But/  the  prebendary  said,  'it  is  to  be  read  in 
the  Abbey,  and  there  is  an  end  of  it.' 

'  No  end,'  Mr  Purcell ;  '  this  is  but  the  beginning 
of  trouble,  you  may  depend  on  it.  There  is  a 
storm  brewing  which  will  break  ere  long,'  and  he 
was  right. 

The  King  had  been  incensed  when  seven  of  the 
Bishops  addressed  him  praying  to  be  excused  from 
ordering  the  Declaration  to  be  read  in  their  dioceses, 
and  on  the  eighth  day  of  June  the  Archbishop  of 
Canterbury  and  six  Bishops  were  sent  to  the 
Tower  for  contumacy. 

Mr  Perceval  came  to  London,  and  presented 
himself  in  Dean's  Yard,  for  his  concern  about  this 
Declaration  of  the  King's  was  very  great. 

He  asked  me  to  go  with  him  to  witness  the 
disembarking  of  the  Bishops  at  the  Tower  Wharf. 
I  felt  safe  with  Mr  Perceval,  and  indeed  the  crowd 
collected  was  quiet  and  orderly.  The  most  part 
were  on  their  knees  as  the  Bishops  passed  along,  and 
prayed  aloud  for  them,  begging  for  their  blessing. 


WESTMINSTER  ABBEY  153 

As  they  passed  out  of  sight  under  the  dark 
gateway  of  the  Tower,  I  ventured  to  ask  Mr 
Perceval,  who  seemed  deeply  moved,  whether  he 
had  read  the  Declaration  in  his  church  on  the 
day  appointed. 

To  this  he  answered, — 

'  No ;  nor  would  I  read  it  were  I  commanded  to 
do  so  a  hundred  times.  Far  sooner  would  I  go 
with  yonder  good,  holy  men  to  the  Tower.' 

'Yet/  I  said,  'tolerance  is  a  virtue  for  princes 
to  exercise.' 

'Tolerance!  This  is  scarce  to  be  called  toler- 
ance. It  will  serve  the  King's  own  ends.  The 
chief  places  in  Church  and  State  are  filling  fast 
with  the  Papists,  and  this  declaration  is  but  a 
confirmation  of  what  we  have  seen  at  hand — the 
King  has  broken  faith  with  the  nation.' 

We  had  much  pleasant  converse  on  our  home- 
ward way. 

'  In  Adelicia,'  Mr  Perceval  said,  '  there  is  as  yet 
no  change.  She  refuses  to  be  comforted,  and  I 
have  given  Mistress  Turner  strict  charge  to  watch 
her  narrowly  lest  she  should  escape  and  do  violence 
to  herself.' 

He  asked  me  if  I  had  thought  well  over  what 
he  had  said  to  me  before  I  left  Ivy  Farm. 

Yes,  I  had  thought  well  over  it,  but  still  asked 


154  IN  THE  CHOIR  OF 

for  delay.  I  cannot  say  why  I  was  so  long  holding 
back  from  one  who  thus  honoured  me  with  his 
love.  Mayhap  it  was  that  the  wound  of  betrayal 
would  still  ache  and  smart 

How  patient  he  was  with  me ;  how  gentle,  how 
tender ;  and  he  proved  himself  then,  as  ever,  a 
true-hearted  and  steadfast  man. 

Before  we  returned  to  Dean's  Yard,  he  said  he 
had  a  mind  to  go  and  find  his  sister  at  the  Chan- 
cellor's, which  was  close  at  hand. 

I  dreaded  to  go  to  the  grand  house  in  Duke 
Street,  and  begged  to  be  taken  home,  that  he 
might  go  thither  alone.  But  he  said  he  would 
not  spare  me,  and  surely  I  was  not  afraid  of 
William  Mountfort  ?  No,  but  of  the  Chancellor,  he 
had  such  an  eagle  glance,  and  when  I  saw  him  at 
the  wedding  feast  I  shuddered  when  I  thought  of 
all  the  dreadful  cruelty  of  his  sentences  on  the 
innocent.  It  amazed  me  to  think  William  Mount- 
fort  could  be  so  devoted  to  Jeffreys ;  at  which  Mr 
Perceval  asked  me  if  I  remembered  Saul's  love  for 
David,  and  how  the  evil  spirit  departed  from  him 
when  he  played  before  him. 

'  I  think  this  tie  between  the  Chancellor  and  Will 
Mountfort  is  of  the  same  character.  He  charms 
by  his  wit  and  humour,  by  his  beautiful  voice,  and 
by  the  evenness  of  his  temper.' 


WESTMINSTER  ABBEY  155 

The  Chancellor  lived  in  much  state,  and  we  were 
ushered  by  lacqueys  into  the  withdra wing-room  of 
the  stately  house,  where  we  found  William  Mount- 
fort  singing  a  song,  the  music  composed  by  my  dear 
master. 

William  did  not  stop  on  our  entrance,  and  Susanna 
held  up  her  hand  to  prevent  us  from  interrupting. 

The  Chancellor  lay  back  in  a  chair  richly  covered 
with  crimson  velvet.  He  beat  time  on  the  carved 
arms  with  his  large  yet  shapely  hands,  the  fingers 
loaded  with  rings.  He  did  not  seem  to  notice  our 
entrance,  and  his  keen  eyes  were  fixed  on  the  singer. 

When  the  song  ceased,  the  Chancellor  said, — 

'  Well  done,  Will,  you  have  chased  away  the 
phantoms  for  this  time — ugly  phantoms  which  are 
wont  to  visit  me  day  and  night.  As  I  am  bidden 
to  sup  with  the  King,  I  must  needs  be  in  a  mood 
to  suit  his  sacred  Majesty.  This  has  been  a  fine 
day's  work  truly ;  by  this  time  their  rebellious  lord- 
ships are  safe  in  the  Tower,  I  take  it.' 

*  Yes,  my  lord,'  Mr  Perceval  said ;  '  we  have  seen 
them  taken  thither  amidst  the  tears  and  prayers 
of  the  people.' 

'We — we!     Who  are  we?' 

Mr  Perceval  had  made  a  deep  reverence  to 
the  Chancellor,  while  Susanna  took  my  hand  and 
said, — 


i  $6  IN  THE  CHOIR  OF 

'This  is  the  promised  bride  of  my  brother,  my 
lord.' 

'  Ha !  and  a  winsome  bride  she  is.  I  have  seen 
her  before.  Is  it  not  so,  fair  lady  ? ' 

'  I  saw  your  lordship  at  the  wedding  feast  of 
Master  Mountfort.' 

'  Ah !  I  remember,  I  remember.  I  have  eyes  for 
fair  ladies,  including  Mistress  Bracegirdle.  Is  it  not 
so,  Will?' 

William  Mountfort  assented  with  a  smile.  I 
thought  the  smile  had  sadness  in  it. 

'The  fair  one  favours  none  of  her  admirers.  Is 
it  not  so,  Will?' 

'She  has  a  kind  word  and  a  smile  for  all  her 
friends,  and  these  be  amongst  the  poorest  as  well 
as  the  richest,'  William  Mountfort  replied. 

'Yes,'  Susanna  Mountfort  said,  putting  her  hand 
into  her  husband's  arm,  as  if  to  assure  him  of  her 
faith  in  him,  for  rumours  were  afloat  that  Mrs 
Bracegirdle  had  an  especial  kindness  for  him. 
'Yes,  my  lord,  and  this  is  one  of  her  chief  friends, 
who  would  defend  her  and  her  good  name  at  the 
point  of  the  sword  if  need  arose.' 

'  Well  spoken,  well  spoken,  fair  lady/  the  Chan- 
cellor said.  '  Hark  ye,  Will,  there  is  no  greater 
blessing  in  the  world  than  a  true  and  loyal  wife 
like  your  Sue.' 


WESTMINSTER  ABBE  Y  1 57 

'I  am  well  aware  of  it,  my  lord,  and  well  do  I 
know  I  have  won  a  prize  in  mine.' 

The  servants  soon  after  announced  that  his  lord- 
ship's chair  was  waiting,  and  we  took  our  leave. 
As  we  passed  out,  we  saw  the  chair,  with  powdered 
footmen  in  fine  liveries  standing  ready  to  carry  my 
lord  to  Whitehall,  and  a  crowd  collected  to  see 
him  depart. 

'  Gilded  state,  indeed/  Mr  Perceval  said ;  c  but  I 
would  sooner  be  one  of  those  brave  bishops  in  the 
Tower  than  Lord  Chancellor  to  serve  a  king  like 
James. 

'  I  have  heard  some  folks  speak  of  him  as  win- 
ning and  gracious  in  manner,  and  ready  to  pardon 
offenders.' 

'  Ay,  that  may  be,  but  there  is  no  reliance  to  be 
placed  in  him,  as  time  will  show.' 

Mr  Perceval  returned  to  his  cure  on  the  next  day, 
but  we  saw  no  more  of  him  after  he  left  me  at  Mr 
Purcell's  house.  He  declared  his  intention  of  seeing 
Edmund  Pelham  and  reprimanding  him  for  his  cruel 
desertion  of  his  wife.  Whether  his  words  had  any 
effect  we  did  not  hear,  but  this  I  am  sure,  they 
were  spoken  in  all  sincerity,  and  yet  gently  and 
kindly. 

It  was  soon  after  noon  on  the  day  but  one  following 
that  I,  sitting  in  the  parlour  with  the  baby  Frances 


i$8  IN  THE  CHOIR  OF 

in  my  arms,  was  startled  by  the  report  of  guns  and 
the  sudden  clang  of  bells.  Mr  Purcell,  coming  in, 
said, — 

'  The  Tower  ordnance  are  firing  for  the  birth  of  a 
Prince,  so,  my  little  daughter,'  he  went  on,  taking  the 
infant  from  my  arms,  '  you  and  the  Prince  of  Wales 
have  entered  into  this  troublesome  life  nearly  at 
the  same  time;  but,  sweet  little  Frances,  I  predict 
thy  life  will  be  a  happier  one  than  the  little 
Prince's — God  grant  it!'  Then  he  covered  the 
child  with  kisses,  which  awoke  her,  and  she  began 
to  whimper.  'What,  am  I  too  rough  with  thee, 
sweet  one?  There,  I  am  but  an  awkward  nurse, 
go  back  to  thy  gentler  one,  who  tends  thee  with 
such  loving  care.' 

It  was  a  time  of  startling  events.  As  my  dear 
master  said,  there  was  scarce  time  to  breathe  after 
the  surprise  caused  by  one,  when  another  claimed 
attention.  Through  the  kindness  of  my  dear 
master  I  was  with  him  in  Westminster  Hall  when 
the  Bishops  were  brought  up  to  hear  the  indictment 
read.  Never  can  I  forget  the  sight  of  those  seven 
noble  men,  who  stood  with  unshaken  firmness  as 
the  indictment  was  read.  They  were  at  last  dis- 
missed on  their  own  recognisances  for  two  weeks. 

These  weeks  were  weeks  of  ferment  in  many 
quarters. 


WESTMINSTER  ABBEY  159 

Those  who  came  in  to  the  Purcells  house,  and 
they  were  numerous,  had  all  tales  to  tell  of  the 
growing  discontent  abroad. 

There  were  whisperings  that  the  little  Prince  was 
no  prince  at  all ;  that  he  had  been  brought  in  a 
warming-pan  to  the  Queen's  chamber,  and  that 
the  King  connived  at  the  deceit.  And  although 
at  first  many  laughed  at  the  folly  of  the  story,  it 
grew  with  the  telling,  and  gained  credence. 

Mr  Purcell  was  completing  a  thanksgiving  anthem 
for  the  birth  of  the  Prince,  and  an  ode  for  the  King 
quickly  followed.  He  was  ever  so  fully  occupied 
with  music,  which  was  as  the  very  air  he  breathed, 
and  as  the  sustenance  on  which  he  depended,  that 
the  great  matters  occupying  the  thoughts  of  the 
King's  subjects  were  not  affecting  him  so  deeply 
as  might  have  been  supposed.  Then  his  delight 
in  the  healthy,  happy  babe  who  had  been  given 
him  after  the  loss  of  her  infant  brothers  was  ever 
a  wellspring  of  joy  to  him.  As  I  sat  with  the 
babe  in  my  arms,  for  her  mother  was  but  weak 
and  frail,  and  could  ill  bear  any  fatigue,  Mr  Purcell 
would  play  softly  some  sweet  air  on  the  harpsichord 
and  say,  as  he  turned  his  head  to  gaze  on  the 
sleeping  child, — 

'Is  that  like  the  song  of  the  angels,  little  one? 
Sure  she  smiles  as  she  hears  it' 


i6o  IN  THE  CHOIR  OF 

It  was  but  a  fancy  of  her  father's,  for  little 
Frances  only  smiled  as  do  most  infants  with- 
out any  meaning ;  but  the  fancy  pleased  him, 
and  I  can  see  before  me  now  his  beautiful  face 
alight  with  parental  love  and  tenderness  and 
pride. 

Owing  to  Mrs  Purcell's  weakness  and  shrinking 
from  being  exposed  to  the  fatigue  of  a  long  day 
in  Westminster  Hall,  when  the  Bishops  were  to 
appear  to  be  tried,  I  was  witness  to  a  scene  which 
must  ever  remain  as  one  of  the  most  striking  in 
the  history  of  this  kingdom. 

This  scene  has  been  described  by  many,  and 
yet,  in  recording  the  events  of  my  own  life,  I  can- 
not pass  it  over  without  a  word,  more  especially 
as  the  decision  in  after  years  of  those  who  were 
called  Non -Jurors — that  is,  refused  to  take  the  oaths 
of  allegiance  to  King  William  and  Queen  Mary — 
affected  my  own  lot  so  painfully.  Nay,  I  recall 
that  word ;  there  should  be  no  pain  in  the  par- 
ticipation I  had  in  the  noble  protest  of  one  I 
loved  for  honour's  sake. 

There  was  a  goodly  assemblage  in  that  stately 
Hall  of  Westminster  on  the  twenty-ninth  day  of 
June  1688 — Saint  Peter's  Festival — which,  to  many, 
was  thought  a  significant  coincidence. 

The   bearing   of   these    Bishops,   with   the   Arch- 


WESTMINSTER  ABBEY  161 

bishop  at  their  head,  impressed  all  onlookers. 
There  was  no  defiance  in  their  mien ;  only  a 
calm  determination  which  was  dignified  and  im- 
pressive. 

Sir  Samuel  Astry's  voice,  strong  and  resonant, 
asked  if  his  Grace  of  Canterbury  and  their  Lord- 
ships of  Ely,  Chichester,  St  Asaph,  Bristol,  Peter- 
borough and  Bath  and  Wells  pleaded  guilty  or 
not  guilty  to  the  charge  brought  against  them. 

What  a  long  day  it  was !  The  heat  was  all 
but  unbearable,  yet  none  who  had  seats  or  even 
standing  room  thought  of  leaving  their  places. 

It  was  therefore  a  disappointment  to  find,  just 
as  the  Abbey  clock  struck  out  six,  that  the  jury, 
being  unable  to  agree  in  their  verdict,  were  to  be 
locked  up  till  nine  o'clock  the  next  morning. 

But  what  a  great  burst  of  rejoicing  was  heard 
the  next  day  when  it  was  known  the  Bishops  were 
icquitted. 

A  lane  of  people,  high  and  low,  rich  and  poor, 
Dn  their  knees,  was  made  as  the  Bishops  passed 
through,  to  beg  their  blessing.  And  as  to  the 
light,  it  was  like  day  with  bonfires,  and  the  bells  of 
svery  church  rang  out  merry  peals  for  the  righteous 
verdict  which  had  been  obtained,  despite  the  night- 
long resistance  of  the  king's  brewer,  who  was  one 
;>f  the  jurors. 


162  IN  THE  CHOIR  OF 

Of  all  the  confusion  and  turmoil  with  which  the 
kingdom  was  disturbed  during  the  next  few  months, 
I  had  no  greater  share  than  that  of  hearing  of  it 
from  those  who  came  and  went  in  Dean's  Yard. 

William  Mountfort  and  Susanna,  who  were  still 
living  in  Lord  Jeffreys'  house  near  by,  frequently 
came  and  brought  us  tidings  of  what  was  passing. 

William  Mountfort  had  a  sore  time  of  it  with 
the  Chancellor.  He  cursed  and  swore  at  the 
vacillation  of  the  King,  well  knowing  that  he  would 
fall  with  him,  if,  indeed,  the  Prince  of  Orange, 
whose  landing  in  England  was  daily  looked  for, 
succeeding  in  wresting  the  Crown  from  him.  It 
was  William  Mountfort  who  gave  us  piteous 
accounts  of  the  King's  constant  change  of  front, 
at  one  moment  defying  his  enemies,  at  the  next 
shrinking  before  them.  But,  as  was  natural,  the 
condition  of  the  poor  Queen  touched  Mrs  Purcell's 
heart  and  mine  most  deeply. 

Early  in  December  the  Queen  was  left  alone  at 
Whitehall  surrounded  with  spies  and  traitors,  and 
knowing  not  where  to  turn ;  her  child  was  taken 
from  her  by  the  King's  order,  and  only  by  the 
urgent  entreaty  of  Lord  Dartmouth  did  he  consent 
to  have  him  recalled,  under  the  care  of  Lord  and 
Lady  Powis,  from  Portsmouth  to  Whitehall. 

To  think   of  the  babe   tossed   about  after  this 


WESTMINSTER  ABBEY  163 

manner,'  Mrs  Purcell  said ;  '  sure,  it  will  kill  him  to 
be  exposed  to  the  wintry  weather.  My  heart  aches 
for  his  mother.' 

William  Mountfort  came  in  with  startling  news 
on  the  evening  of  the  eighth  day  of  December. 
He  was  greatly  agitated,  and  said, — 

'All  is  lost  now;  the  Chancellor  has  surrendered 
the  Great  Seal  to  the  King,  having  used  it  for  the 
last  time  to  seal  the  writs  for  a  general  election. 
He  is  like  one  distraught ;  he  is  tearing  up  papers 
and  throwing  aside  books,  venting  his  temper  on 
the  lacqueys,  who,  scenting  what  is  in  the  air,  sneer 
and  openly  scoff  at  him.  I  can  scarce  bear  more 
of  it.  I  have  sent  Susanna  to  her  father  ;  it  is 
not  meet  for  her  to  hear  the  Chancellor's  language; 
yet  I  have  loved  him,  and  even  now  would  help 
him  if  I  could.' 

This  news  of  the  Chancellor's  fall  was  followed 
the  next  day  by  the  story  of  the  poor  Queen's 
escape  with  her  child.  Of  this,  her  marvellous 
escape,  William  Mountfort,  by  reason  of  his  inti- 
macy with  one  of  the  gentlemen  about  the  Court, 
was  a  witness.  This  gentleman  had  gained  know- 
ledge of  the  Queen's  flight,  and  being  devoted  to 
her  and  burning  with  indignation  against  those  who 
had  circulated  the  shameful  lies  as  to  the  identity 

<f^ 

of  the  child,  had  invited  William  Mountfort  to  cross 


164  IN  THE  CHOIR  OF 

to  Lambeth  with  him,  where  a  coach  was  to  be  in 
readiness  to  receive  her  and  the  infant  prince. 

' "  I  should  like  to  be  assured,"  this  gentleman 
said,  "of  my  Queen's  safety,  and,  if  it  be  possible, 
let  her  have  the  assurance  of  my  allegiance  and 
desire  to  accompany  her  on  her  journey." 

'This  he  could  not  do  from  Whitehall,  for  the 
Count  de  Lauzun  had  a  grudge  against  him,  and 
like  as  not  would  have  worked  him  mischief. 

'Thus  I  started  with  him  before  dark,  paying  a 
boatman  a  large  fee  to  take  us  across  from  the  horse 
ferry. 

'  A  night  of  storm  and  pouring  rain  made  even  the 
boatman  hesitate.  He  was  bribed  by  a  gold  piece 
and  our  telling  him  we  were  bound  to  reach  Lam- 
beth owing  to  the  sickness  of  a  relative.  We  got 
safely  across,  though  in  danger  of  our  lives  from 
the  rocking  of  the  crazy  craft. 

'  The  evening  soon  closed  in,  and  we  repaired  to  a 
little  hostel  to  refresh  ourselves  and  dry  our  clothes.' 

'  The  Queen  was  not  to  leave  Whitehall  till  two 
o'clock,  so  we  had  time  enough  and  to  spare.  I 
dozed,  but  my  companion  could  not  close  his  eyes. 
He  walked  up  and  down  the  little  kitchen  where 
we  had  been  permitted  to  shelter  from  the  raging  of 
the  wind  and  the  ceaseless  downpour  of  cold  rain 
that  was  mixed  with  particles  of  frozen  snow. 


WESTMINSTER  ABBEY  165 

'  What  a  night !  and  what  a  morning !  I  felt  then,' 
William  Mountfort  said, '  how  far  the  tragedy  of  real 
life  exceeds  the  tragedy  which  we  act  on  the  stage. 
For  this  was  a  tragedy  indeed.  A  gentle-nurtured 
Queen  and  her  child,  a  Prince  of  royal  blood,  tossed 
on  the  dark  waters  of  the  river  in  peril  of  their  lives, 
escaping  from  what  were  truly  the  foes  of  her  own 
household. 

'As  soon  as  the  clock  of  old  Lambeth  Church 
struck  three,  we  left  the  hostel,  telling  the  host  that 
we  must  hasten,  despite  the  rain  and  storm,  to  the 
sick  relative  we  had  come  to  see. 

'  He  looked  at  us  suspiciously  and  said,  if  we 
were  a  pair  of  evil  Jesuits,  he  was  sorry  he  had  given 
us  shelter,  "  for,"  says  he,  "  as  to  your  sick  relative, 
I  dare  to  say  it's  a  pack  of  lies,  and  there  are  no 
liars  like  the  Jesuits." 

'My  friend  paid  the  man  handsomely,  there- 
by stopping  his  tongue,  and  it  was  a  relief 
when  we  heard  him  bang  and  bolt  the  door  be- 
hind us.' 

William  Mountfort  had  a  marvellous  gift  for  de- 
scription, and  it  is  vain  for  me  to  try  to  give  the 
narrative  after  the  forcible  fashion  in  which  he  gave 
it  to  us. 

There  was  a  little  concourse  of  listeners.  Mrs 
Purcell  with  her  babe  clasped  to  her  breast,  several 


1 66  IN  THE  CHOIR  OF 

of  their  neighbours  and  friends,  and  old  Mrs  Purcell 
with  her  son  Edward. 

My  dear  master  stood  leaning  against  the  back 
of  the  settle  on  which  his  wife  was  seated,  now  and 
again  looking  down  on  the  happy  infant  quietly 
asleep,  and  yet  listening  intently  to  William  Mount- 
fort's  story. 

'  The  gale  blew  more  and  more  fiercely,'  William 
Mountfort  said,  '  the  rain  descended  in  torrents,  and 
bitter  was  the  cold.  My  friend  and  I — he  bade  me 
keep  back  his  name  by  reason  of  the  prejudice 
against  him  in  certain  quarters,  he  being  a  Pro- 
testant— heard  a  voice  calling  aloud  for  Dusiores. 

'"The  page  of  the  backstairs,"  my  companion 
whispered,  "  let  us  draw  nearer  the  bank  under  cover 
of  the  darkness." 

' "  No  coach  waiting,  curse  you ! "  we  heard  a 
muffled  voice  say. 

' "  No,"  said  another,  "  but  it  will  be  here 
anon." 

'  Then,  guided  by  a  single  torch,  which  smoked 
in  the  rain  and  gave  but  a  weird  light,  we  saw  the 
figure  of  Her  Majesty  withdraw  to  the  shelter  of 
the  walls  of  old  Lambeth  Church. 

'We  crept  round,  and  the  projecting  side  of  the 
porch  in  which  the  Queen  stood  saved  us  from 
observation.  Indeed,  in  the  blackness  of  darkness 


WESTMINSTER  ABBEY  167 

this  was  not  difficult  to  escape.  We  were  so  near 
we  heard  the  Queen's  agonised  murmur, — 

' "  If  he  wakes,  oh,  my  God !  if  he  should  wake 
and  cry,  he  will  betray  us.  Holy  Mary,  have  pity, 
have  pity,  and  send  the  chariot  which  is  to  take  us 
out  of  danger." 

'  Long,  long  did  she  wait,  and  it  seemed  an 
eternity  to  her  and  to  the  little  company  who  had 
cast  in  their  fortunes  with  her. 

'  My  friend  drew  nearer  to  the  spot  where  the 
Queen  stood.  I  heard  him  murmur, — 

'"God  save  your  Majesty  and  the  Prince.  I  am 
ready  to  die  for  you." 

'What  the  answer  was  I  cannot  tell,  but  it  must 
have  been  a  gracious  one. 

'The  coach  came  swiftly  up  at  this  moment. 
There  was  a  movement  in  the  little  company,  then 
the  torch  flared  up,  and  for  an  instant  I  saw  the 
face  of  the  Queen,  her  babe  clasped  to  her  breast, 
then  the  sound  of  the  coach  door  as  it  was  closed, 
and  I  found  myself  alone.  Whether  my  friend  had 
climbed  on  the  back  of  the  coach  I  know  not. 
This  is  my  story,  for  I  saw  him  no  more. 

'There  was  no  sound  now  but  the  rush  of  the 
river  and  the  swirl  of  the  water  against  the  posts 
where  the  boat  was  moored  which  had  brought 
over  the  Queen. 


1 68  IN  THE  CHOIR  OF 

'A  dim  light  at  the  prow  guided  me  to  it,  and, 
waiting  for  no  permission,  I  jumped  in,  hoping  my 
friend  might  be  there.  But  I  was  alone  with  the  boat- 
men, who  rowed  hard  against  wind  and  tide,  not  notic- 
ing my  presence  till  we  landed  at  the  horse  ferry. 

' "  What  do  you  here  ?  "  they  asked,  with  an  oath. 

' "  I  wanted  to  cross  the  river,"  I  said,  tossing  the 
ruffian  a  piece  of  silver,  and  then  I  was  right  glad 
to  find  myself  ashore,  making  my  way  as  speedily 
as  might  be  to  Duke  Street,  where  I  found,  as  I 
say,  all  things  in  a  hubbub,  and  those  who  had 
cringed  before  the  Chancellor,  and  flattered  him, 
leaving  him  to  his  fate.' 

William  Mountfort  left  us  for  that  time,  to  re- 
turn the  next  day  with  the  further  news  that  the 
King  had  fled,  and  had  thrown  the  Great  Seal  into 
the  Thames,  and  that  the  Chancellor  had  fled,  like 
his  master,  and,  disguised  as  a  common  sailor, 
hoped  to  escape  beyond  the  seas. 

I  remember  to  this  day,  and  it  strikes  me  more 
forcibly  now  that  I  look  back  on  it  than  at  the 
time  when  all  these  events  were  taking  place,  that 
Mr  Purcell  was  undisturbed  in  the  midst  of  storm 
— following  his  business  with  unabated  diligence 
and  composing  music,  which  sure  will  be  sung  when 
the  great  revolution  of  that  year  will  have  passed 
into  dim  remembrance. 


WESTMINSTER  ABBE  Y  169 

At  matins  and  evensong  at  the  Abbey,  whither, 
to  quiet  our  troubled  spirits,  Mrs  Purcell  and  I  re- 
sorted by  turns,  the  music  my  dear  master  drew  forth 
from  the  organ  was,  sure,  never  more  beautiful. 

He  had  always  a  composition  on  hand,  always 
some  music  floating  in  his  brain,  always  living  in 
the  delight  its  expression  gave  him,  never  satisfied 
with  what  he  achieved,  ever  longing  to  do  some- 
thing better  and  higher. 

Within  the  walls  of  the  house  in  Dean's  Yard 
there  was  peace.  Love  struck  the  chords,  and  the 
harmony  was  scarce  ever  disturbed  by  a  false  note. 
I  dare  scarce  trust  myself  to  write  more  of  my 
dear  master,  as  I  saw  him  day  by  day;  and  I  can 
hear  his  voice  now  as  he  crooned  snatches  of 
melody  over  his  babe  Frances,  when,  as  some- 
times happened,  she  was  fractious  with  the  ailments 
of  infancy.  Her  father  seldom  failed  to  soothe  her, 
and  she  would  lift  her  tiny  fingers  and  stroke  his 
face  or  play  with  the  lace  of  his  cravat,  and  smile 
on  him  through  the  tears  which  were  but  as  an 
April  shower,  and,  quick  to  come,  were  quick  to 
pass. 

This  fateful  year  closed  in  gloom  and  sadness  for 
the  nation,  although  there  were  high  hopes  set  on 
William,  Prince  of  Orange,  to  whom  many  swore 
allegiance,  and  looked  on  him  as  a  deliverer. 


i;o    IN  THE  CHOIR  OF  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY 

It  may  be  these  were  right,  and  the  country  was 
saved  by  his  hand  from  the  hated  thraldom  of  the 
Pope,  from  which  the  Reformation  had  set  the 
people  of  England  free.  Yet  there  were  those 
who,  like  myself  and  Mrs  Purcell,  could  weep  to 
think  of  the  exiled  King,  whose  heart-broken  cry 
when  he  heard  of  his  daughter's  desertion  gave 
sorrow  to  many  a  heart. 

'God  help  me!'  he  said,  'even  my  own  children 
have  forsook  me.' 


BOOK    IV 

1689 

'A  man  that  I  love,  and  honour  with  my  soul,  and 
my  heart,  and  my  duty,  and  my  life,  and  my  being, 
and  my  uttermost  power.' — SHAKESPEARE  (Henry  V. 
Act  III.) 


CHAPTER    VIII 

A.  D.    1689 

THE  Coronation  of  the  new  King  and  Queen 
Mary  in  Westminster  Abbey  was  the  occasion  of 
some  trouble  in  our  little  household,  which  is 
perhaps  too  important  for  me  to  pass  over. 

Mr  Purcell  believed  he  had  full  command  of  the 
organ  loft  at  the  north  side  of  the  choir,  where 
a  fine  view  of  the  ceremony  was  obtained.  And 
for  my  part,  though  my  opinion  may  not  be 
worth  the  hearing,  I  think  there  was  justice  in 
the  claim. 

Whether  or  not  it  was  right  to  take  money  for 
the  places  I  cannot  decide,  though,  if  it  had  been 
done  before,  sure  Mr  Purcell  was  not  so  greatly 
to  blame  if  he  followed  old  usage. 

Those  who  have  read  my  story  up  to  this  point 
may  remember  that  I  did  not  witness  the  grandeur 
which  marked  the  Coronation  of  King  James. 
Therefore  I  was  pleased  to  be  told  I  was  to 


174  Iff  THE  CHOIR  OF 

accompany  Mrs  Purcell  to  the  loft  and  that  Mr 
Purcell's  mother  would  keep  the  house  and  tend 
baby  Frances  on  that  day. 

We  were  all  astir  early.  My  dear  master 
trying  the  effect  of  the  anthem  which  he 
had  composed  in  honour  of  the  event,  at  break 
of  day,  on  the  small  chamber  organ  which  he 
had  lately  placed  in  one  of  the  parlours  where 
rehearsals  took  place,  was  enough  to  chase  away 
our  slumbers. 

Mr  Purcell  had  bidden  some  of  his  friends  to 
accompany  us  early  that  we  might  get  the  first 
places  in  the  loft. 

Amongst  those  who  arrived  in  Dean's  Yard  in 
the  spring  dawning  were  Mrs  Bracegirdle  and 
William  and  Susanna  Mountfort,  with  Edmund 
Pelham,  who  had  the  escort  of  two  gay  ladies  in 
bright  attire. 

We  all  assembled  in  the  parlour,  where,  by  Mrs 
Purcell's  order,  cups  of  wine  and  cakes  were  handed 
round  by  me. 

Edmund  Pelham  was  not  behind  anyone  in  the 
richness  of  his  dress.  He  was  full  of  merriment, 
and  bandied  jokes  with  William  Mountfort.  He 
greeted  me  as  one  he  knew  well,  and  maybe 
liked,  but  with  no  particular  expression  of  pleasure 
in  seeing  me. 


WESTMINSTER  ABBEY  175 

When  I  had  handed  him  the  wine  cup  and  the 
platter  of  cakes,  I  said, — 

'Tidings  were  brought  me  yesterday  from  Mis- 
tress Pelham.' 

'  Ah !  poor  soul !     Is  she  recovering  ? ' 

My  heart  burned  with  indignation  as  I  answered, — 

'  Recovered  in  health  but  not  in  mind.  When 
will  it  please  you  to  take  her  home?' 

One  of  the  gay  ladies,  whom  he  called  Mistress 
Cynthia,  now  said, — 

'  I  never  heard  say  you  had  a  mother,  Master 
Pelham.  What  has  ailed  her?' 

I  waited  a  moment,  sure  Edmund  would  speak, 
but  he  pretended  to  be  engaged  with  answering 
Mrs  Purcell's  question  as  to  whether  he  had  been 
well  served.  I  could  not  help  it.  I  replied  for 
him, — 

'Master  Pelham's  wife,  madam,  has  been  sorely 
stricken  with  smallpox.' 

'  Ah  ! '  Mistress  Cynthia  screamed,  '  has  he  been 
nigh  her  ?  Is  there  fear  of  catching  it  ? ' 

'  You  need  have  no  fears  on  that  score,'  I  said. 
'  Master  Pelham  has  not  seen  his  wife  for  some 
months.' 

Edmund  Pelham  was  a  master  in  the  art  of  con- 
cealment. He  now  turned  with  a  smile,  saying,— 

'  It  must  be  time  to  be  departing  for  the  Abbey. 


176  IN  THE  CHOIR  OF 

Shall  I  have  the  honour  of  conducting  you  thither, 
fair  ladies?  Mistress  Bracegirdle  is  well  provided 
for/  he  added,  with  a  laugh. 

William  Mountfort  was  indeed  in  earnest  con- 
sultation with  Mrs  Bracegirdle,  who  was  evidently 
urging  on  him  some  request.  I  heard  the  last 
few  words, — 

'  I  pray  you  be  cautious  ;  he  is  a  tiger  in  cruelty 
and  a  serpent  in  guile,  with  which  last  he  gains 
his  ends.  Oh !  I  pray  you,  beware ! ' 

William  Mountfort  took  her  hand  and  kissed  it, 
and  I  knew  no  more,  but  I  noticed  that  Susanna 
Mountfort  put  her  hand  caressingly  into  Mrs 
Bracegirdle's  arm,  and  there  was  the  utmost 
cordiality  subsisting  between  them. 

We  were  now  ready  to  start  for  the  Abbey. 
The  light  was  still  dim,  for  the  morning  was  dark 
and  rain  threatened ;  the  link-boys  were  still 
running  with  their  torches. 

A  great  crowd  had  gathered  before  the  west 
front  of  the  Abbey,  but  we  entered  by  the 
cloister  door  to  our  places. 

To  those  who  had  witnessed  the  Coronation  of  King 
James  this  seemed  far  less  magnificent ;  yet  to  me 
it  was  a  sight  that  filled  me  with  strong  emotion. 
The  Queen  had  great  beauty,  and  she  bore  herself  with 
much  dignity.  Yet  sure  there  must  have  been  sad- 


WESTMINSTER  ABBEY  177 

ness  in  her  heart,  as  she  thought  of  her  father  obliged 
to  take  flight  from  his  country,  and  her  infant  brother 
driven  away  .vith  his  mother  from  his  home  and 
his  lawful  inheritance. 

By  the  Queen's  side  the  King  looked  puny  and 
small ;  his  face  was  sallow  and  hard  featured,  and 
he  went  through  the  whole  ceremony  as  if  he  were 
doing  somewhat  of  a  penance. 

The  organ  loft  was  filled  with  people,  and  amongst 
them  were  many  who  talked  freely  of  the  causes  of 
the  change  which  had  come  about  without  blood- 
shed, and  had  been  to  some  unexpected,  to  others 
but  the  natural  consequences  of  the  attitude  of 
King  James  against  the  Church  which  he  had 
sworn  to  protect  with  her  services  and  ritual. 

Instead,  the  priests  and  emissaries  of  Rome  were 
everywhere.  As  in  the  case  of  Magdalen  College, 
Oxford,  unlawful  means  were  used  to  turn  out 
those  who  held  office  in  the  Reformed  Church,  and 
replace  them  with  Romish  priests.  Mass  was  publicly 
said  in  the  Royal  Chapels,  and  by  subtle  but 
certain  means  Rome  had  been  like  to  assert  her 
supremacy. 

There  was  no  Archbishop  to  place  the  crown 
on  King  WilMam's  head.  The  Bishop  of  London 
took  his  place.  Many  of  the  chief  of  the  peers  and 

peeresses  of  the  realm  were  absent,  and  there  were 

M 


1 78  IN  THE  CHOIR  OF 

but  five  bishops  and  four  judges.  None  others  had 
taken  the  oath  of  allegiance  to  the  new  sovereigns. 

A  voice  near  me  said, — 

'There's  news  that  King  James  is  landed  in 
Ireland,  hence  time-servers  do  well  to  keep  away.' 

'  Ay,'  said  another,  '  what  if  the  tide  turn  and  flow 
as  quick  as  it  ebbed.  In  a  pretty  condition  those 
who  are  assisting  here  to-day  would  find  themselves.' 

Soon  my  whole  attention  was  fastened  on  the  scene 
below,  and  I  leaned  forward  in  breathless  attention. 
The  King  was  attended  by  the  Bishop  of  London,  the 
Queen  by  the  Bishop  of  St  Asaph.  The  Holy  Bible 
was  given  to  the  King  and  Queen  to  kiss,  and  then 
the  Bishop  of  Salisbury  preached  a  long  sermon.  No 
one  in  the  loft  seemed  to  care  to  listen  to  his  dis- 
course, and  much  unseemly  whispering  and  titters  of 
laughter  went  on,  such  scant  reverence  was  shown  for 
the  place  where  we  were  assembled. 

For  my  part,  I  was  wholly  taken  up  by  the  read- 
ing of  the  coronation  oath,  both  King  and  Queen 
blending  their  voices  in  assent  and,  each  holding 
up  the  right  hand,  kissed  the  book  together. 

The  King  seemed  bowed  down  with  the  weight  of 
his  grand  velvet  robes,  with  their  ermine  border,  but 
the  Queen  carried  herself  from  first  to  last  with  grace 
and  dignity.  There  was  a  wondrous  charm  about 
Queen  Mary,  and  it  was  the  more  remarkable  that 


WESTMINSTER  ABBEY  179 

so  gentle  and  gracious  a  lady  should  harden  her  heart 
against  her  own  father,  and  lend  credence  to  the 
foolish  story  of  her  brother's  birth  being  fictitious. 
After  the  Coronation  there  was  an  immense  crowd  in 
Westminster  Hall  to  witness  the  dining  in  public  of 
the  new  Sovereigns.  Scaffolds  were  erected  which 
took  up  one  side  of  the  Hall.  There  was  the  usual 
ceremony,  after  the  feast,  of  the  champion  riding  in 
and  throwing  down  a  glove  to  challenge  all  who  denied 
the  right  of  the  new  Sovereigns  to  the  throne.  It  is 
said  this  ceremony  was  for  a  long  time  delayed,  and 
that  the  Queen's  face  betrayed  great  anxiety.  The 
King's  face  never  betrayed  aught,  either  of  fear,  love, 
or  hate — it  was  always,  as  it  were,  a  sealed  book. 

I  was  glad  to  go  back  to  the  quiet  of  our  house  in 
Dean's  Yard,  but  Mrs  Purcell  went,  with  others,  under 
care  of  her  husband,  to  witness  the  proceedings  in 
Westminster  Hall.  I  found  Leonard  Perceval  await- 
ing my  return,  to  my  great  surprise.  I  could  not 
conceal  my  joy,  and  all  my  coldness  towards  him 
vanished. 

I  sprang  towards  him,  exclaiming,  '  I  am  glad  you 
are  come/  nor  did  I  withdraw  from  his  embrace  as  I 
had  often  done  before. 

'  Is  my  sweetheart  indeed  glad  to  see  me  ? 

'  Ah  !  yes,'  I  said,  '  for  I  am  weary  and  long  for  quiet. 
Were  you  present  at  the  Coronation  ? '  I  asked. 


i8o  IN  THE  CHOIR  OF 

'No,  nor  did  I  desire  to  be  present.  This  as- 
sumption of  the  crown  by  William,  Prince  of  Orange, 
causes  grave  uneasiness  in  many  hearts,  and  it  will 
affect  me  even  in  my  humble  position. 

'  How  so  ? '  I  asked. 

'  I  shall  never  find  myself  able  to  take  the  oaths 
of  allegiance  as  a  member  of  the  Church  is  bound 
to  take  them,  and  thus  I  shall  not  be  competent 
to  hold  the  cure  of  Barton.  I  have  come  to  London 
expressly  to  take  counsel  with  the  Bishop  of  Bath 
and  Wells,  and  from  him  learn  if  his  Grace  the 
Archbishop,  under  whose  jurisdiction  and  in  whose 
province  I  hold  my  cure,  is  like  to  yield,  or  change 
the  line  of  conduct  he  has  chosen.  Of  this  there 
is  not  the  remotest  chance.  I  have  seen  his  chap- 
lain and  learned  from  him  that  his  Grace,  with  the 
Bishops,  who  went  with  him  to  the  Tower  on  the 
question  of  the  Declaration,  will  not  acknowledge 
the  Prince  of  Orange  as  King.  This,'  he  added, 
1  my  sweet  one,  will  affect  my  future  so  seriously 
that  I  cannot  ask  you  to  cast  in  your  lot  with  mine.' 

Now  there  was  ever  in  me  a  strange  kindling  of 
affection  for  anyone  who  was  in  any  sort  of  trouble. 
Thus  I  now  knew,  what  I  had  scarcely  known  of  a 
surety  before,  that  I  loved  Leonard  Perceval,  and 
that  whensoever  he  wished  to  make  me  his  wife,  I 
would  be  ready. 


WESTMINSTER  ABBEY  181 

'  I  said/  he  continued,  '  I  would  serve  seven  years 
for  my  Rachel,  and  it  may  be  now  it  will  be  twice 
seven.' 

'  Why  should  it  ? '  I  asked,  and  then,  hiding  my 
face  on  his  shoulder,  I  said,  '  I  am  ready  to  come 
to  you.  Have  I  not  enough  for  both.  We  can  live 
at  Ivy  Farm,  and  you  can  minister  to  the  poor 
at  Hertsby — a  neglected  parish  scarce  ever  visited 
by  the  Rector,  save  now  and  again  on  the  festivals 
of  the  Church.  You  can  find  work  there.' 

'  Ah ! '  he  said,  stroking  my  hair  back  from  my 
forehead,  and  kissing  it,  'ah,  my  dear  one,  you  are 
full  of  generous  intentions,  but  I  must  pause  ere 
I  take  advantage  of  your  goodness.' 

'  Now  I  will  hear  naught  in  that  strain,'  I  said ; 
'  I  am  yours  henceforth,  to  do  as  you  bid  me,  and 
to  be  true  to  you  while  I  live.' 

My  change  of  mood,  for  I  had  never  been  thus 
free  to  tell  him  what  was  in  my  heart  before — 
though  I  now  knew  this  love  had  been  hidden 
there  for  a  long  space — seemed  to  surprise  him. 

For  an  instant  I  questioned  whether  he  thought 
me  wanting  in  maidenly  reserve  in  making  this 
confession — only  for  an  instant,  for  struggling  with 
what  was  evidently  strong  emotion,  Leonard  said, — 

'  I  came  hither  thinking  I  was  the  bearer  of  news 
which  might  decide  my  fate,  and  that  you  would 


1 82  IN  THE  CHOIR  OF 

not  care  to  share  the  lot  of  a  houseless  and  home- 
less minister  of  the  Church,  who  will  surely  be 
deprived  of  his  living.  Instead,  this  news  has  been 
a  blessing  in  disguise,  for  it  has  shown  me  the 
treasure  of  your  love  is  mine,  which  before  I  had 
sometimes  questioned.  Thank  God !  thank  God ! 
that  question  is  for  ever  set  at  rest.' 

So  in  the  little  parlour  of  Mr  Purcell's  house 
— while  the  immense  throng  outside  Westminster 
Hall  was  shouting  huzzas  for  the  new  King  and 
Queen,  while  the  great  events  of  the  revolution  and 
change  of  Sovereigns,  of  the  news  from  Ireland, 
spreading  rapidly,  that  King  James  was  raising 
troops  and  was  determined  to  fight  against  those 
who  had  conspired  to  take  away  his  crown — we 
two,  small  and  of  no  repute,  were  forgetting  every- 
thing in  the  sweet  consciousness  of  our  mutual 
love. 

Yes,  I  can  say  with  all  my  heart,  that  from  that 
hour  my  life  was  illuminated  by  the  sunshine  of 
Leonard's  love,  and  all  changes  and  chances  and 
sorrows  which  befell  me  were  as  naught ;  light  as 
dust  in  the  balance  when  weighed  with  it. 

Leonard  told  me  that  Adelicia  was  still  distressed 
and  troubled  by  the  condition  of  her  face  —  that 
she  had  tried  some  lotions  made  by  a  travelling 
quack,  who  went  about  the  country  selling  his  wares, 


WESTMINSTER  ABBEY  183 

potions  and  draughts,  which  he  made  believe  were 
certain  cures  for  every  disease.  His  lotion  had  in- 
creased, instead  of  lessening,  the  evil,  and  the  marks 
left  by  the  smallpox  were  worse  rather  than  better 
for  this  man's  prescription. 

'  It  is  vain  for  Mistress  Turner  to  tell  her  that  time 
is  the  only  cure  for  the  mischief  wrought  by  that 
terrible  scourge,  and  that  it  does  often  soften  the 
hard  lines  and  reduce  the  red  blotches  in  size. 
She  will  not  listen  and  is  by  times  peevish  and 
fretful,  or  moody  and  sullen.  A  piteous  sight.  1 
think  of  making  an  appeal  to  Pelham  to  ease  her 
poor  heart  of  its  burden,  but  I  fear  me  it  will  be 
in  vain.' 

Leonard  told  me  Madge  had  been  tamed  by  school 
discipline,  and  that  of  the  two  boys  aboard  ship  good 
reports  had  been  sent  through  Mr  Gostling.  But, 
to  say  truth,  we  soon  left  the  affairs  of  others  to 
recur  to  our  own. 

He  would  not  stay  to  sup ;  but  before  he  left  me 
he  put  on  my  finger  a  ring  which  had  been  his 
mother's,  with  this  posy,  'Together  heavenwards.' 

He  said  he  had  kept  it  in  his  purse  for  a  long 
time,  with  the  design  of  putting  it  on  my  finger  as 
a  sign  of  betrothal,  but  that  he  had  never  felt  sure 
of  my  love  till  this  blessed  day,  which,  said  he,  will 
mark  the  Coronation  of  William  and  Mary,  the  so- 


1 84  IN  THE  CHOIR  OF 

called  King  and  Queen,  for  ever  in  my  calendar 
with  a  red  letter. 

And  so  he  left  me  in  a  happy  dream  of  bliss,  from 
which  I  was  roused  by  the  return  of  Mrs  Purcell. 

She  was  faint  and  weary  with  the  day's  long 
spectacle,  and  asked  in  an  irritated  voice  for  her  child. 

'  She  is  with  her  grandmother,'  I  said,  '  who,  when 
she  has  her  in  charge,  does  not  brook  any  inter- 
ference.' 

'  That  is  a  pretty  excuse.  I  thought  to  find  her  in 
your  arms.  You  know  full  well  grandmother  is  apt 
to  be  cross  if  the  blessed  angel  cries.  I  must  climb 
the  stairs  to  find  out  how  it  fares  with  my  sweet 
babe,  though  I  have  scarce  a  breath  to  draw  or  a 
leg  to  stand  on.' 

And,  overwrought  and  tired,  Mrs  Purcell  fell 
a-weeping,  and  I  had  much  ado  to  make  her  take 
some  cordial  and  lie  down  on  the  settle. 

'You  look  pleased  enow,'  she  said  presently. 
'What  has  come  over  you,  Betty? 

I  showed  my  finger  with  the  ring,  in  which  a 
large  blue  sapphire  shone. 

'What  does  it  mean?     What  does  it  mean?' 

'That  I  have  promised  to  be  Leonard  Perceval's 
wife  whensoever  he  pleases.' 

'  And  leave  me — leave  me  now  I  need  you  so 
sorely.  Oh,  how  cruel !  how  graceless ! ' 


WESTMINSTER  ABBEY  185 

And  again  there  was  a  burst  of  tears  and  sobs. 

'  Nay,  dear  mistress,'  I  said ;  '  I  will  not  leave  you 
till  after  your  babe's  birth.' 

'  You  promise ;   you  vow  you  will  not  ? ' 

'  Yes/  I  said,  '  I  do.' 

She  quieted  down  then,  and  I  went  to  the  upper 
chamber  to  ask  old  Mrs  Purcell  to  take  the  babe 
to  her  mother,  as  she  was  too  weary  to  climb  the 
steep  stairs. 

'And  no  wonder,  after  gadding  about  since  day- 
break. She  goes  the  road  to  kill  herself.  My  poor 
son  is  burdened  with  a  wife  who  is  always  ailing.' 

'Shall  I  take  little  Frances  to  her  mother?' 

'  No ;  you  had  best  see  to  the  preparation  of 
supper.  My  son  will  come  home  faint  and  hungry.' 
The  baby  opened  her  eyes,  and,  seeing  me,  held 
out  her  arms  with  a  whimper  to  come  to  me. 
'  Take  her,  then,'  her  grandmother  said ;  '  sure  I've 
had  enough  of  her  company  this  day — and  what  a 
hubbub  there  is  still  going  on,'  for  the  noise  of 
huzzas  and  the  glare  in  the  sky  of  the  fireworks 
which  were  let  off  in  every  quarter  made  the  night 
almost  like  the  day. 

I  carried  the  babe  to  her  mother,  and  by  her 
presence  all  rough  places  were  smoothed  down. 

Mrs  Purcell  called  me  to  kneel  by  her  side  as 
the  child  lay  in  her  arms,  telling  me  she  was  glad 


1 86  IN  THE  CHOIR  OF 

I  was  to  be  the  wife  of  a  good  man  like  Mr  Perceval, 
and  that  she  would  not  be  selfish,  but  when  the 
time  came  would  give  me  a  wedding  feast  'as  fine 
as  I  shall  give  to  my  little  Frances  when  she  is 
wedded.' 

We  waited  long  for  the  master's  return ;  and,  worn 
out  with  the  day's  fatigue,  I  begged  Mrs  Purcell  to 
retire  to  rest,  and  said  that  I  would  watch  for  Mr 
Purcell  to  come  home. 

'  I  wish  he  would  not  stay  out  so  late,'  Mrs  Purcell 
said.  '  He  is  often  complaining  of  his  throat,  and 
naught  is  worse  for  it  than  the  chill  night  air.' 

When  both  his  wife  and  mother  had  yielded  to 
my  entreaties,  and  I  was  left  alone,  I  sat  for  some 
time  listening  for  the  chimes  of  the  Abbey  clock  as 
they  struck  the  quarters,  and  at  last  midnight 
sounded  in  twelve  sonorous  strokes. 

It  was  just  then  that  I  heard  the  dear  master's 
step,  and  hastened  to  admit  him  at  the  door.  He 
passed  me  without  a  word,  which  was  so  unusual 
with  him  that  I  feared  something  was  amiss. 

'Where  is  my  wife?'  he  asked.  'Where  is  my 
mother  ? ' 

'  They  are  both  abed,'  I  replied  ;  '  the  day  has 
been  a  tiring  one.' 

'  Ay,  you  may  well  say  that,'  and  Mr  Purcell 
flung  himself  on  the  settle,  saying,  '  Give  me  a  hot 


WESTMINSTER  ABBEY  187 

posset,  Betty,  for  I  am  chilled  in  mind  and 
body.' 

I  asked  no  questions.  I  have  always  found  that 
questions  are  only  an  irritation  when  there  is  some 
trouble  pressing  on  one  who  does  not  show  any 
desire  of  confiding  in  me,  what  that  trouble  is. 

'This  has  been  a  pretty  day's  work  for  me, 
Betty.' 

'A  tiring  day's  work.' 

'Ah,  worse!  The  Chanter  called  me  aside  in  the 
vestibule  this  afternoon,  and  asked  by  whose  per- 
mission the  organ  loft  was  filled  with  gay  folk, 
and  by  whom  they  were  bidden  to  sit  there.  I 
answered  by  me,  and  I  believed  I  had  a  right  to 
bid  them  to  the  organ  loft.  Then  he  asked  if  I 
took  money  for  the  place,  and  I  said  yes,  and  he 
turned  away  frowning,  saying,  I  must  be  summoned 
before  Dean  and  Chapter  to  make  justification  for 
my  conduct  if  I  could.  Then  another  of  the 
Chapter  came  bustling  up  to  me,  saying  it  was 
a  shame  that  I  should  take  money  thus,  and 
it  would  be  for  the  Chapter  to  suspend  me 
from  my  post  of  organist  unless  I  could  deny  the 
charge.' 

I  was  greatly  grieved  to  see  my  dear  master's 
evident  concern. 

'Say   naught    of    this,   Betty,   till    the    summons 


1 88  IN  THE  CHOIR  OF 

comes;  it  will  be  a  cruel  blow  for  my  poor  Fan 
in  her  present  state,  and  I  would  fain  spare  her 
the  pain  as  long  as  I  dare  do  so.' 

Then  after  he  had  drunk  the  posset  his  spirit 
seemed  to  revive. 

'  Hark,  Betty,  to  what  I  say.  They  may  take 
away  from  me  the  organ ;  they  may  punish  me  by 
so  doing,  but  no  Dean  and  Chapter,  thank  Heaven ! 
can  deprive  me  of  music.  It  is  mine  and  gives 
me  a  joy  yonder  prebendaries,  and  Dean  at  their 
head,  know  naught  of.  I  can  yet  earn  bread  for 
my  wife  and  children  by  my  office  of  copyist,  in 
which  you  are  a  help,  and  I  am  beset  with  appli- 
cations for  the  setting  of  verses  to  fitting  music. 
No,  no,  I  will  not  lose  heart.' 

4  Is  it  your  due,  this  money  for  seats  in  the  loft, 
sir?'  I  ventured  to  ask. 

'  It  is  the  perquisite  of  the  office  of  organist.  I 
will  hold  to  my  rights,  for  my  own  sake  and  that 
of  those  who  may  come  after  me.  A  paltry  salary 
such  as  mine  may  well  look  for  augmentation  by 
these  means.  Now,  go  to  rest,  child,  the  whole 
affair  may  blow  over,  and  so  mind  and  keep  silence 
till  I  give  you  leave  to  speak.' 

I  did  my  dear  master's  bidding,  but  I  had  not 
long  to  wait  for  making  his  trouble  known. 

The   man   known   as   Clerk   to   the    Chapter,    Mr 


WESTMINSTER  ABBEY  189 

Needham,  arrived  the  following  day  and  served 
Mr  Purcell  with  a  summons  to  attend  before  them 
on  the  eighteenth  day  of  April  to  answer  certain 
charges  as  to  appropriation  of  moneys  which  were 
the  dues  of  the  Dean  and  Prebendaries  of  West- 
minster Abbey. 

I  took  the  bold  resolution  of  seeing  Mr  Crespion, 
and  begging  him  to  deal  leniently  with  my  dear 
master.  I  had  long  desired  to  see  him  on  another 
account,  hoping  to  move  him  to  compassion  about 
poor  Adelicia,  and  to  beg  him  to  use  his  influence 
to  persuade  her  husband  to  take  her  home. 

As  it  may  be  remembered,  long  before  this  time 
I  had  been  summoned  by  the  Chanter  to  his  house 
when  Adelicia  had  rebelled  against  his  authority 
in  the  matter  of  her  marriage,  but  my  knees  shook 
and  my  heart  beat  so  that  I  could  scarce  speak  a 
word  when  I  was  ushered  into  the  Chanter's  pre- 
sence. Mr  Crespion  eyed  me  in  anything  but  a 
pleasing  manner.  He  waved  his  hand,  saying, — 

'Be  seated,  Mistress  Lockwood,  and  let  me  hear 
your  errand.' 

'  I  came,  unknown  to  Master  Purcell,  or,  indeed, 
to  anyone  living,  to  beg  you,  sir,  to  withdraw  the 
accusation  made  against  my  dear  master.' 

'  Tut,  tut !  this  is  impertinence.  I  cannot  listen  to 
it.  Master  Purcell  has  been  guilty  of  taking  undue 


IQO  IN  THE  CHOIR  OF 

advantage  of  his  position  at  the  late  Coronation  of 
their  Majesties,  and  he  will  have  to  refund  the 
money  he  has  taken,  or  be  removed  from  his 
place  as  organist.' 

'  Sir,'  I  said,  '  Master  Purcell  has  the  precedent  in 
the  conduct  of  those  who  have  gone  before  him.' 

'  Has  he  ?  Then  the  sooner  such  conduct  is  con- 
demned and  stopped,  the  better.  You  are  young 
and  ignorant,  Mistress  Lockwood,  or  you  would 
see  that  Master  Purcell  had  acted  unfairly,  I  am 
loth  to  say  dishonestly.' 

'  He  is  incapable  of  dishonesty,  sir,'  I  said ;  '  if 
he  has  done  wrong,  it  is  unwittingly.  Mistress 
Purcell  is  in  a  frail  state  of  health.  This  blow 
falls  heavily  on  her,  and  I  pray  you  to  consider 
the  circumstances.' 

'  I  have  considered  them,  and  however  I  may 
lament  the  consequences  of  Master  Purcell's  act  fall- 
ing on  his  respected  lady,  this  must  not  blind  me  to 
the  fact  that  he  is  greatly  to  blame — very  greatly 
to  blame,'  Mr  Crespion  said,  opening  a  massive, 
silver  snuff-box,  and  holding  a  pinch  thoughtfully 
between  his  thumb  and  forefinger,  while  he  made 
a  movement  as  if  to  show  me  that  my  interview 
was  at  an  end. 

But  having  gone  so  far,  though  all,  I  felt,  was 
to  but  little  purpose,  I  determined  to  proceed. 


WESTMINSTER  ABBEY  191 

'  Have  you  heard,  sir,'  I  asked,  '  of  the  lamentable 
condition  in  which  Mistress  Pelham  is  placed?' 

'Mistress  Pelham,'  the  Chanter  said,  shutting  the 
snuff-box  with  a  sharp  click.  *  And  who  may  she 
be?' 

'Your  niece,  sir — Adelicia.' 

'  By  heaven !  Mistress  Lockwood,  your  zeal  out- 
runs your  discretion,  or  rather  your  propriety.  That 
name  is  never  mentioned  in  my  presence.  I  dis- 
owned my  step-niece  for  misconduct,  nor  do  I 
choose  ever  to  set  eyes  on  her  again.' 

'If  you  did,  sir,'  I  said,  my  courage  rising,  'you 
would  be  shocked  to  see  her.  Smallpox  has  de- 
stroyed her  beauty,  and  she  is  but  a  wreck  of  her 
former  self.' 

'  Let  her  husband  see  to  her.' 

'  Ah  !  sir,  here  is  the  saddest  part  of  her  punish- 
ment. He  refuses  to  see  her,  or  to  give  her  the 
shelter  of  his  house.  It  so  happens  that  a  farm  on 
the  borders  of  Hertfordshire  belongs  to  me,  and 
Mistress  Pelham  is  there  at  this  time,  but  her  heart  is 
breaking  through  the  desertion  of  her  husband,  and 
I  am  so  bold  as  to  ask  you  if  you  could  admonish 
him,  and  show  him  it  is  his  bounden  duty  to  protect 
and  nourish  his  wife.' 

'  You  must  find  someone  else  for  this  office.  I  hear 
of  Master  Pelham  as  well  to  do,  and  thought  of  as 


192  IN  THE  CHOIR  OF 

a  keen-sighted  gentleman  at  the  Bar,  though  it  may 
be  Jeffreys  has  dragged  him  down  with  him  in  his  fall. 
My  dear  Mistress  Lockwood,  you  show  youth  and 
ignorance  of  the  world  by  your  appeal.  I  will  not 
resent  what  many  would  deem  an  impertinence  on 
that  score ;  but  I  must  hasten  to  the  Abbey  for 
matins,  and  you  must  consider  our  interview  at  an 
end.' 

There  was  naught  left  for  me  but  to  curtsey  and 
depart;  but  I  ventured  one  word  more, — 

'May  I  pray  you,  sir,  to  acquit  my  dear  master, 
Master  Purcell,  of  any  dishonesty  in  what  has 
passed  ?  What  has  been  done  has  been  done  by 
others  before  him.  Do  not,  I  beseech  you,  let  him 
suffer  when  his  predecessors  have  gone  free.' 

Mr  Crespion  made  no  answer  to  this;  and,  with 
cheeks  aflame  and  tears  starting  from  my  eyes,  I 
returned  whence  I  came,  smarting  under  a  sense  of 
defeat,  which  is  ever  a  sore  smart. 

The  next  few  days  were  days  of  trial  and  anxiety. 
Many  of  Mr  Purcell's  friends  rallied  round  him  when 
the  matter  was  spread  abroad.  All  were  full  of  sym- 
pathy and  indignation  at  the  harsh  treatment  Mr 
Purcell  had  met  with  at  the  hands  of  the  Chapter, 
for  they  were  obdurate,  and  for  some  time  we  knew 
not  what  would  be  the  issue  of  the  conflict. 

The  suspense  was  very  hard  to  bear,  and  the  quick 


WESTMINSTER  ABBEY  193 

following  of  public  events  did  not  divert  us  from  the 
matter  which  was  of  all  importance  to  us  in  Mr 
Purcell's  house. 

He  was  a  marvel  of  cheerfulness,  and  went  on 
composing  and  playing  on  the  organ  more  divinely 
than  I  had  ever  heard  him. 

William  Mountfort  was  very  frequently  at  the 
house  in  Dean's  Yard,  making  plans  for  Mr  Purcell 
to  compose  music  for  plays,  and  this  took  him 
away  from  us  more  than  Mrs  Purcell  desired. 

She  had  conceived  a  notion  that  the  theatrical 
folk  were  not  good  companions  for  Mr  Purcell, 
and  that  he  frequented  the  places  where  they  met 
too  often. 

But  of  this  I  can  testify,  that  purity  of  life  and 
conduct  were  notable  in  Mr  Purcell  from  the 
day  I  entered  his  house,  a  child  in  years,  and 
scarce  knowing  what  office  I  was  to  fill  in  it,  till 
that  St  Cecilia's  day  when  I  parted  from  him  for 
ever. 

Amongst  those  who  came  to  Dean's  Yard  at  this 
this  time  was  Mrs  Bracegirdle,  who  had  awoke  in 
my  heart,  when  I  first  saw  her,  the  most  intense 
admiration. 

It  was  beautiful  to  see  her  cast  aside  her  cloak  and 
hood,  and  seat  herself  on  the  floor  with  baby  Frances 
on  her  knees,  singing  to  her  and  toying  with  her 

N 


194  IN  THE  CHOIR  OF 

with  all  that  grace  of  motion  for  which  she  was 
remarkable. 

I  was  alone  with  her  one  summer  evening,  when 
she  suddenly  held  the  child  towards  me,  saying, — 

'Take  her!  take  her,  Betty!  Would  to  God  I 
were  a  little  child  again,  as  guileless  and  unharmed 
by  contact  with  this  miserable  world.'  And  then 
the  admired  actress,  whose  fame  was  spreading  near 
and  far,  covered  her  face  with  her  hands  and  cried 
bitterly. 

The  mood  passed,  and,  starting  up,  she  said, — 

'  Tell  me  of  yourself,  little  Betty.  Susanna  Mount- 
fort  says  her  brother  is  waiting  to  wed  you,  and 
you  put  him  off  week  after  week.  Do  not  put 
him  off  too  often,  or  the  colour  of  yon  sapphire  on 
your  finger  will  fade,  and  love  will  wane.' 

'  Nay,'  I  said,  '  I  am  too  sure  of  Leonard's  love  to 
think  of  any  change.  I  am  bound  to  stay  with  those 
who  first  taught  me  what  home  meant,  till  the  clouds 
have  passed  from  their  sky.' 

'You  mean  as  to  the  organist's  place  in  the  Abbey. 
Do  you  think  that  those  worthy  dignitaries  would  be 
such  fools  as  to  lose  the  greatest  musician  of  the 
time  on  this  quibble?  Not  they,  not  they!  But  I 
think  these  Non-Jurors  are  a  riddle.  Susanna  says 
that  she  and  her  father  have  done  their  utmost  to 
make  Leonard  take  the  oaths  to  the  King  and 


WESTMINSTER  ABBEY  195 

Queen.  He  will  be  deprived  of  the  cure  of  Burton 
if  he  holds  out  —  and  then  what?  "What  God 
pleases,"  he  says.  Pshaw !  I  have  no  patience  with 
such  folly ;  and  here  are  these  Bishops  leading  on 
the  inferior  clergy  to  follow  in  their  steps  Sent  to 
the  Tower  by  King  James  one  day  for  conscience 
sake,  and  now  refusing  to  swear  allegiance  to  his 
successor,  forsooth  —  also  for  conscience  sake.  I 
could  laugh  to  think  of  it ! ' 

'  Nay,  dear  madam,'  I  said,  '  it  is  not  a  thing  to  be 
lightly  spoken  of.  It  is  a  mighty  grave  matter,  and 
is  causing  many  a  good  man  sorrow  of  heart  as  it 
causes  Leonard  Percival.' 

'  Ah !  well,  I  do  not  comprehend  it' 

Then  she  took  my  hand  in  hers — the  babe  having 
played  with  it  and  dulled  the  stone  in  my  ring  with 
her  breath. 

'  See,  see,  the  sapphire  is  clouded  !  Did  I  not  warn 
you  that  if  it  happened  it  would  be  a  sign  and  token 
of  love's  brightness  being  clouded.' 

I  rubbed  the  stone  bright  again  with  a  corner  of 
the  babe's  gown,  and  laughing,  said, — 

'  It  is  only  a  passing  cloud — if  there  is  one  at  all, 
which  I  doubt.' 

'  Well,'  Mrs  Bracegirdle  said,  '  you  are  well  out  of 
some  one's  love  I  could  name.  Edmund  Pelham  is  a 
sad  rake,  and  that  is  why  he  will  not  have  his  wife 


196  IN  THE  CHOIR  OF 

home  to  his  house.  He  is  a  great  favourite  with  the 
nobles  and  grand  folk,  and  those  in  high  places,  but 
it  will  not  last — pride  will  have  a  fall.  How  is  that 
poor  creature,  his  wife?  I  heard  she  was  gone 
melancholy  mad.' 

'She  is  in  a  grievous  state  of  mind  and  body,'  I 
said.  'She  has  increased  the  terrible  redness  and 
scars  on  her  face  by  the  lotions  of  a  pedlar  in 
such  wares.' 

'  Poor  creature !  it  must  be  a  bitter  trial  to  see 
one's  fair  face  so  disfigured.  Tell  me,  Betty,  tell 
me  what  man's  love  would  last  in  such  a  case ! ' 

'A  good  man's,'  I  replied,  'whose  love  was  not 
skin  deep.' 

'  Ah !  we  have  yet  to  prove  that.  I  dread  small- 
pox and  death.  Oh !  how  I  dread  death,  and  I  go 
through  the  real  thing  as  poor,  mad  Ophelia  and 
Desdemona.  As  I  die — when  I  am  sweet  and  pure 
Desdemona — I  shudder  and  tremble,  and  yet  I  say 
better  death  than  life  with  a  man  who  has  lost 
faith  in  me.' 

How  beautiful  was  Mrs  Bracegirdle  when  she 
spoke  thus.  Her  eyes  were  as  orbs  of  light,  across 
which  the  shadow  of  her  great  emotions  passed  like 
clouds,  making  their  exceeding  brilliance  more 
brilliant  when  they  shone  out  again.  Eyes  they 
were  that  were  dim  with  sorrow  for  th^  poor  and 


WESTMINSTER  ABBEY  197 

sad,  ay,  and  the  sin-struck,  of  Clare  Market ;  eyes 
that  often  shed  tears  of  divinest  pity  as  she  walked 
unscathed  amidst  a  throng  of  outcasts,  where  others 
did  not  dare  to  tread,  with  blessings  as  she  went. 
If  the  beauty  and  wondrous  gifts  of  this  fair  woman 
worked  sorrow  and,  as  in  one  dire  case,  death  for 
those  who  loved  her,  sure  the  blessings  poured  on 
her  by  the  miserable  folk  of  Clare  Market,  and  the 
gratitude  they  showed  for  her  manifold  deeds  of 
charity,  may  be  set  against  these,  and  her  name 
may  be  held,  as  I  hold  it,  in  reverence  and  affection. 
And  here  I  must  quickly  pass  over  the  months 
that  followed,  and  record  the  happy  healing  of  the 
breach  between  the  Chapter  of  Westminster  and 
their  organist,  whose  little  son  Edward  was  baptised 
in  the  Abbey  by  the  Chanter  on  the  seventh  day  of 
September,  and  I  was  married  on  the  following 
morning  to  Leonard  Perceval.  Of  my  blissful 
life  with  him  I  will  take  a  short  survey  in  the 
next  book  before  I  write  more  concerning  the 
dear  master  under  whose  roof  I,  as  Elizabeth 
Lockwood,  lived  for  five  years. 


BOOK    V 
1689 — 1692 

My  heart  is  great ;  but  it  must  break  with  silence 
Ere  it  be  disburdened  with  a  liberal  tongue. 

Richard  //.,  Act  II. 


CHAPTER    IX 

A.D.    1689 

BURTON  Rectory  was  scarce  two  miles  from  Ivy 
Farm,  and  here  my  husband  took  me  one  quiet 
autumn  evening  of  this  year. 

It  was  a  house  with  many  gables,  and  the  aspect 
was  homelike,  and,  in  my  eyes,  fairer  than  any 
palace  could  be. 

As  I  crossed  the  threshold,  Leonard  bid  me  look 
at  a  motto  which  was  carved  in  bold  letters  over  the 
open  hearth :  '  Pax  intrantibus,  salus  exeuntibus.' 

1  May  the  first  be  thine,  sweet  heart,'  he  said,  '  and 
the  last  proved  when  it  comes  to  going  forth,  as  go 
we  surely  must.' 

'Go?'  I  asked— '  whither  ?' 

'  Whither  God's  hand  leads  us,'  he  said ;  '  but  I 
will  not  cloud  your  home-coming  by  sadness.  It  is 
my  home  for  the  present  time,  and  the  future  is,  as 
I  say,  in  God's  hand.' 

I   was  so  happy   in    the   present,   the   calm   and 
201 


202  IN  THE  CHOIR  OF 

repose  of  the  country  was  so  sweet  after  the 
town,  that  I  cast  aside  all  forebodings  of  coming 
change. 

'  If  I  have  you,'  I  said  to  Leonard,  '  that  is 
enough.  You  make  my  home  now.' 

'  I  shall  see  and  consult  with  the  good  and  holy 
Bishop  of  Bath  and  Wells  before  I  finally  decide 
my  course;  meantime,  take  a  survey  of  your  new 
home,  and  I  will  look  into  matters  about  the  parish. 
Here  is  my  good  servant,  Joyce,  who  will  show  you 
the  upper  chambers.' 

Joyce  was  a  gentle-spoken  woman,  who  looked  at 
me  with  kindly  eyes. 

'  Sure,'  she  said,  '  you  are  welcome  here.  His 
reverence  has  need  of  a  wife,  for  it  has  been  lone- 
some for  him,  though  he  is  always  about  in  the 
village,  tending  the  sick  and  praying  by  them,  and 
he  has  made  almost  daily  walks  to  Ivy  Farm,  where 
a  poor  creature  is  in  a  terrible  plight.' 

c  Yes,'  I  said,  '  I  know  her  history,  and  early  on 
the  morrow  I  must  seek  her  out.' 

4 1  am  not  one  of  these  parts,'  Joyce  said ;  '  I  only 
came  hither  from  Canterbury,  at  his  reverence's  wish, 
to  make  the  place  meet  for  his  lady.  I  hope  you'll 
be  satisfied.  His  reverence  has  lived  in  two  small 
rooms — a  parlour  and  bedchamber  adjoining ;  now 
he  will  use,  it's  to  be  hoped,  these  large  parlours.' 


WESTMINSTER  ABBEY  203 

And  Joyce  threw  open  the  door  on  the  right  side 
of  the  hall,  and  I  exclaimed, — 

'  Oh !  what  a  lovely  parlour,  and  another  room 
beyond  opening  from  it ! ' 

'  I  am  glad  you  are  pleased.  Now  you  must  come 
upstairs.' 

The  chambers  there  were  light  and  pleasant. 
Yes — and  the  sense  of  home  was  everywhere. 

Then  I  must  needs  go  out  and  see  the  church. 
I  had  often  worshipped  there,  and  it  was  within  these 
walls  my  husband's  voice  had  first  awoke  in  me  the 
yearning  after  a  more  excellent  way  than  I  had  ever 
known. 

The  door  was  open,  and,  passing  in,  I  saw  Leonard 
kneeling  on  the  steps  before  the  altar,  with  his  head 
bowed  in  his  hands.  I  feared  to  disturb  him,  but 
I  crept  slowly  up  to  him,  and  knelt  by  his 
side. 

The  evening  was  closing  in,  and  there  was  the 
hush  of  autumnal  stillness  in  the  air — that  stillness 
which  is  so  different  from  the  innumerable  sounds 
of  stir  and  awakening  which  we  hear  in  spring. 

It  was  a  solemn  eventide  when,  hand-in-hand, 
Leonard  and  I  passed  out  of  the  church  to  our 
home  close  by. 

In  the  western  light  I  saw  my  husband's  face. 
It  was  raised  to  the  sky  above,  where  the  evening 


204  IN  THE  CHOIR  OF 

star  hung  like  a  silver  lamp.  On  his  face  was  the 
look  of  one  who  had  put  on  his  armour,  and  was 
pledged  to  fight  against  evil  and  wrong,  and  to 
obey  the  voice  of  conscience  at  whatever  cost. 

'  Dear  heart,'  he  said,  '  it  will  go  hard  with  me  to 
bring  you  to  this  peaceful  home  only  to  leave  it, 
but  the  decision  of  the  Archbishop  and  Bishops 
is  naught  to  me  now.  Whatever  course  they 
follow,  my  duty  is  clear.  I  cannot  take  the  oaths 
to  the  new  King  and  Queen,  and  my  deprivation 
will  of  necessity  follow,  and  my  place  here  will  be 
filled  by  a  man  who  can  swear  allegiance  to  a 
usurper.' 

Having  said  as  much,  Leonard  seemed  to  cast  off 
care  and  was  cheerful  and  even  gay  as  he  led  me  to 
his  room  lined  with  books,  where  Joyce  had  kindled 
a  bright  wood  fire  and  laid  supper  on  the  board. 
Later,  the  man  who  worked  on  the  glebe  and  kept 
the  pleasance  in  order,  by  the  help  of  a  boy,  was 
summoned  in  to  prayer  with  Joyce.  They  made  me 
a  low  reverence  and  asked  leave  to  bid  me  welcome. 

'  May  your  ladyship  spend  many  years  here,'  Sam 
said,  'and  have  health  and  happiness.' 

Such  was  my  first  evening  in  my  new  home,  and 
I  determined  to  enjoy  it  while  I  had  it 

I  was  early  at  Ivy  Farm  on  the  next  day.  All 
outward  things  there  were  prosperous — it  had  been 


WESTMINSTER  ABBEY  205 

a  fine  harvest,  and  all  the  crops  had  given  a  good 
yield.  But  in  poor  Adelicia  there  was  no  change 
for  the  better.  Good  Mrs  Turner  told  me  she  had 
seemingly  given  up  hope  of  any  recovery  of  her 
beauty,  or  indeed  of  health.  She  was  now  but  a 
skeleton,  and  neither  ate  nor  drank  nor  slept,  often 
wandering  about  the  house  at  night,  and  moaning 
and  sobbing  till  it  was  heart-breaking  to  hear  her. 

'  She  is  always  saying  she  is  going  to  seek  her 
husband,  but  she  has  scarce  the  strength  of  a  fly,' 
Mrs  Turner  said,  'and  she  totters  when  she 
walks.' 

I  was  determined  that  Edmund  Pelham  should  see 
her.  I  felt  that  he  should  not  in  justice  be  spared 
the  sight  which  might  well  move  the  stoutest  heart 
to  pity. 

On  my  return  to  the  Rectory,  after  trying  in  vain 
to  soothe  and  console  Adelicia,  I  wrote  a  letter  in 
strong  terms  to  Edmund  Pelham,  telling  him  I  be- 
lieved his  wife  was  dying,  and  imploring  him  to  come 
to  her.  I  despatched  my  letter  by  the  stage,  marked 
'  Haste — post  haste  and  urgent '  on  the  cover — and 
I  also  wrote  to  my  dear  master,  begging  him  to  tell 
the  Chanter  of  Adelicia's  condition. 

Leonard  saw  the  doctor  who  travelled  through 
the  district,  and  he  told  him  that  the  nostrums 
and  lotions  Adelicia  had  taken  from  the  pedlar  had 


206  IN  THE  CHOIR  OF 

destroyed  all  chance  of  recovery.  Indeed,  St 
Antony's  fire  had  set  in  on  her  poor  face,  and  it 
would  most  like  prove  fatal. 

Again  it  was  my  lot  to  watch  by  the  suffering  and 
dying  in  my  old  home. 

Day  by  day  Adelicia  slowly  but  surely  declined. 
As  the  end  drew  near,  her  face,  in  a  manner  extra- 
ordinary, but,  as  I  have  heard,  not  uncommon,  cleared 
of  its  terrible  humour,  and  the  swelling  and  dis- 
tortion vanished. 

I  was  about  to  bid  her  good-night  and  run  with  a 
sense  of  gladness  to  my  home,  when  I  heard  steps 
coming  along  the  garden  path. 

'  It  is  Edmund ! '  Adelicia  cried.  '  It  is  my 
husband !  Oh !  Betty,  I  dare  not  see  him.  I  dare 
not  let  him  see  me." 

I  had  scarce  time  to  assure  her  that  she  had  re- 
gained much  of  her  former  looks  when  Mrs  Turner 
came  to  the  chamber  door. 

'A  gentleman  desires  to  see  you,  Mrs  Perceval,' 
she  said. 

I  bid  her  take  my  place  by  the  bed,  and  I  went 
down  to  meet  Edmund. 

Long,  long  ago,  all  feeling  even  of  friendship  for 
him  was  lost  to  me,  but  I  now  felt  deep  pity  for  him, 
a  pity  which  had  almost  conquered  the  indignation 
which  his  treatment  of  Adelicia  had  roused  in  me. 


WESTMINSTER  ABBEY  207 

I  am  come  at  your  bidding,  Mistress  Perceval/ 
he  said.  '  What  news  have  you  for  me  ? ' 

Your  wife  still  lives,  and  you  may  thank  God 
for  His  mercy  that  you  are  in  time  to  receive  her 
pardon,  little  as  you  merit  it.' 

'You  deal  hardly  with  me,'  he  said. 

'  Rather,  justly,'  I  replied ;  '  first,  you  inveigled 
Adelicia  into  a  secret  marriage,  then,  when  she  fell 
a  victim  to  this  dire  disease,  you  desert  her;  you  turn 
from  her  with  loathing,  you  break  her  heart,  for  with 
all  her  faults  she  loved  you,  Edmund,  and  loves  you 
still.' 

He  did  not  speak,  but  stood  convicted  before 
me,  without  a  word  of  self-defence.  Presently  I 
said, — 

'I  will  take  you  to  her ;  you  must  follow  me.' 
He  shrank  back,  and  seemed  as  if  he  were  about 
to  refuse.  '  Are  you  such  a  craven  as  to  fear  to  hear 
your  poor  wife  say  she  forgives  you,  Edmund  ? ' 

'She  will  reproach  me;  she  had  ever  a  sharp 
tongue.  I  cannot  face  reproaches.' 

'  Which,  you  know  full  well,  you  deserve,'  I  said. 

'  She  has  wanted  for  nothing,'  he  said.  '  I  have 
sent  money ;  I  have  offered  to  pay  physicians.  She 
has  wanted  for  nothing.' 

She  has  wanted  love — your  love,'  I  said,  '  and 
you  have  basely  deserted  her.' 


208  IN  THE  CHOIR  OF 

'  Betty/  he  said,  trying  to  take  my  hand  with  all 
his  old,  winsome  manner,  '  nay,  Betty,  do  not  be  so 
cruel  to  me.  Once  you  loved  me — ' 

'  Hold  ! '  I  said.  '  Not  a  word  more  of  this  sort. 
I  am  the  proud  and  happy  wife  of  a  good,  noble- 
hearted  man,  and  the  past  to  which  you  dare  to  refer 
now  fills  me  with  naught  but  thankfulness  that  I  was 
delivered  from  the  man  who  can  desert  his  wife  in 
the  time  of  trouble.  Now,  follow  me.' 

An  angry  light  shone  in  Edmund's  eyes,  but  he 
obeyed  me,  I  opened  the  chamber  door  and 
said, — 

'  Adelicia,  your  husband  is  here.' 

Poor  soul !  Poor,  deeply-tried  soul !  She  raised 
herself  in  her  bed,  and  held  out  her  wasted  arms 
to  him  with  a  low  cry  as  of  a  creature  in  pain.  I 
beckoned  Mrs  Turner  to  leave  the  room,  and,  clos- 
ing the  door,  left  the  husband  and  wife  together.  It 
had  been  a  great  effort  to  me  to  meet  and  speak  as 
I  did  to  Edmund.  I  felt  I  could  bear  no  more,  and 
I  ran  out  of  the  house  and  across  the  fields  in  the 
gathering  twilight  to  my  home — my  blessed  home — 
where  my  husband  awaited  me,  and  I  threw  myself 
sobbing  into  his  arms,  to  be  comforted  and  soothed 
by  his  tender  words. 

Edmund  remained  at  Ivy  Farm,  and  was  with  his 
wife  till  she  died.  I  saw  her  only  once  after  that  first 


WESTMINSTER  ABBEY  209 

night  of  Edmund's  arrival.  She  seemed  comforted 
by  his  presence,  and  told  me,  with  tears  run- 
ning down  her  face,  that  he  said  she  looked  more 
like  herself,  and  that  she  would  get  better  and 
live. 

'  But  I  do  not  wish  to  live/  she  said.  '  He  will 
soon  find  another  wife,  and  it  is  better  I  should  die. 
I  used  to  fear  death ;  but  life  has  been  so  bitter, 
I  am  glad  to  go,  yes,  quite  glad.' 

Then  she  said  many  sweet  words  to  me  of  all  I 
had  done  for  her,  and  she  bid  me  give  her  love  to 
the  Chanter,  and  say  she  hoped  he  would  forgive 
her. 

My  husband  was  with  her  most  of  that  last  day, 
but  he  saw  how  deeply  tried  and  worn  I  was,  and 
took  me  home  and  bid  me  rest,  and  he  would  return 
quickly. 

It  was  near  midnight  when  T  heard  his  welcome 
step,  and  ran  out  to  greet  him.  He  folded  me  to  his 
breast,  saying, — 

'  She's  at  rest,  dear  heart,  at  rest,  and  peace  is 
written  on  her  face,  whence  all  the  scars  are  wiped 
out  by  the  hand  of  Death.  She  looks  almost  young 
again.' 

We  laid  Adelicia  in  her  grave  in  our  little  church- 
yard on  All  Hallow's  Day.  Edmund  stood  at  the 
head  of  the  grave,  while  the  Chanter  Dr  Crespion, 

O 


210  IN  THE  CHOIR  OF 

stood  at  the  foot.  My  husband  read  our  beautiful 
service,  and,  as  ever,  it  brought  hope  and  consolation 
with  it. 

So  bright  and  gay,  I  remembered  Adelicia,  full  of 
life,  and  pleased  with  admiration,  which  she  courted 
and  often  received. 

As  a  little  craft  setting  out  over  a  summer  sea,  with 
the  sails  all  set  to  meet  the  gentle  breeze,  but  with  no 
pilot  on  board,  no  guide  to  warn  of  rocks  and  quick- 
sands; none  to  take  the  helm  and  bear  it  safe  to 
port ;  battered  and  forlorn  after  storms,  yet  making 
the  port  at  last,  with  tattered  sails  and  broken  masts, 
but  a  wreck  of  its  former  self — such  was  Adelicia, 
and  of  her,  even  when  long  years  have  passed,  I  can 
only  think  with  sadness  and  yet  thanksgiving  that 
by  God's  mercy  she  reached  the  haven  where  she 
would  be. 

My  husband  and  Mr  Crespion  had  much  grave  talk, 
the  evening  of  Adelicia's  funeral,  on  the  subject  of 
the  Non- Jurors. 

'  It  is  certain/  Mr  Crespion  said,  '  that  the  Arch- 
bishop will  hold  out,  and  that  the  Bishops  will  follow 
his  example.  The  Bishop  of  Bath  and  Wells  pos- 
sesses the  greatest  influence,  and  though  he  has 
faltered  a  little  in  his  resolution,  yet  there  seems  but 
little  doubt  he  will  be  deprived.  The  King  is  obsti- 
nate, though  it  is  said  the  Queen  is  unwilling  to 


WESTMINSTER  ABBE  Y  211 

enforce  the  oaths  on  those  who  are  unwilling  to 
take  them.  What  are  your  views?'  Mr  Crespion 
asked  of  my  husband.  '  Have  you  arrived  at  any 
decision  ? ' 

'  Yes.     And  by  God's  help  I  will  not  draw  back.' 

c  What !  give  up  this  fair  home,  and  make  yonder 
bride  of  yours  a  wanderer  ?  Nay,  nay,  think  better 
of  it,  dear  sir ;  think  better  of  it'  Then  turning  to 
me,  Mr  Crespion  said, '  Sure  you  will  grieve,  madam, 
to  leave  this  pleasant  rectory.  After  all,  one  king  is 
the  same  as  another.  You  take  the  oaths  to  the 
holder  of  the  office,  not  to  the  man  who  holds  it.' 

'  Ah,  sir,"  my  husband  said, '  that  is  mere  sophistry. 
An  oath  is  an  oath,  and  we  must  not  forswear 
ourselves.' 

'  Well,  well,  I  will  not  grumble  at  you  when  the 
Primate  of  all  England  sets  the  pattern.  They  say 
Tillotson  is  to  jump  into  Lambeth,  and  he  will  be 
nothing  loth ;  and  the  Bishopric  of  Bath  and  Wells 
is  a  pretty  piece  of  preferment.  Such  a  palace ! 
It's  like  an  old  baronial  castle,  with  keep  and 
bastions,  and  gardens  like  those  of  Eden.  I  have 
been  the  Bishop's  guest  there,  and  I  think  it's  the 
loveliest  spot  on  earth.' 

'  And  how  fares  it  with  my  dear  friends  at  West- 
minster, sir  ?'  I  asked,  willing  to  change  the  subject 
of  discourse. 


2i2  IN  THE  CHOIR  OF 

1  They  are  well  and  hearty,'  was  the  reply.  '  The 
boy  Edward  is  lusty  and  strong,  and  Mistress  Purcell's 
health  is  mightily  improved  since  the  boy's  birth. 
Purcell,  it  may  be,  is  taking  too  much  extra  work 
on  himself — too  much  theatre  work — but  he  is  a 
born  musician,  and  the  Chapter  are  ready  to  overlook 
faults  to  retain  him.  He  is  sweet-tempered  and 
obliging,  thus  he  makes  many  friends.  Do  you  hear 
aught  of  your  sister,  Mrs  Mountfort  ? '  Mr  Crespion 
asked  of  Leonard. 

'Susanna  is,  in  fact,  my  cousin,'  was  the  reply, 
'  but  she  will  always  have  it  she  is  my  sister.  She 
is  on  the  stage  again  with  her  husband,  who  has 
returned  to  it,  as  you  know,  since  the  Chancellor's 
fall.  To  think  of  that  proud,  arrogant  fellow  ask- 
ing for  protection  from  the  mob  in  the  Tower !  He 
was  near  torn  to  pieces  by  the  fury  of  those  who 
cannot  forget  the  Bloody  Assize.' 

'  It  ever  seems  to  me,'  Mr  Crespion  said,  'a  vastly 
strange  friendship  that  existed  between  William 
Mountfort  and  Jeffreys,  though  it  is  not  uncommon 
to  see  opposites  in  character  coming  together.' 

Mr  Crespion  returned  to  Westminster  the  next 
day,  not  without  expressing  his  obligations  to  me 
and  Leonard  for  what  we  had  been  able  to  do 
for  his  poor  niece.  He  would  fain  ask  to  reimburse 
us  for  expenses,  but  this  we  assured  him  could  not 


WESTMINSTER  ABBEY  213 

be.  Edmund  Pelham  had  done  all,  and  more  than 
was  needful. 

'  He  is  a  rising  man  at  the  Bar,  and  accounted 
an  acute  lawyer,  I  hear,'  Mr  Crespion  said.  '  But 
with  all  due  respect  to  you,  Master  Perceval,  I  near 
he  is  ever  in  coffee-houses  and  places  where  the 
less  respectable  of  the  theatre  folk  resort.  No 
doubt  your  sister  and  her  husband  are  not  to  be 
reckoned  amongst  them,  and  for  all  scandal-mongers 
have  to  say,  I  believe  Mistress  Bracegirdle  is  a  pure, 
good  woman.' 

'  Oh,  sir,'  I  exclaimed,  '  I  can  vouch  for  it ! '  and 
then  the  hot  colour  rose  to  my  face.  I  feared 
Leonard  might  think  me  over  bold  thus  to  speak 
to  the  Chanter. 

'  Yes,  yes,  I  believe  you  are  right ; '  and  seeing  my 
blushes,  Mr  Crespion  said,  '  Mistress  Bracegirdle 
has  a  good  friend  in  you,  Mistress  Perceval,  and 
so  have  the  inhabitants  of  Dean's  Yard.  The  old 
lady,  Purcell's  mother,  has  taken  up  her  abode  there 
now,  and  there  are  little  vexations  and  contrari- 
nesses which  mothers-in-law  are  clever  in  creating.' 
Mr  Crespion  laughed,  saying,  '  You  do  not  possess 
that  relative,  Master  Perceval,  and  I  dare  to  say 
you  don't  deplore  the  want  of  one.' 


CHAPTER    X 

A.D.  1690-1692 

I  SAID  at  the  outset  that  my  own  life  had  not  been 
marked  by  any  very  startling  events,  save  as  I  was 
brought  into  contact  with  others  whose  names  are 
known,  and,  as  in  the  case  of  my  dear  master,  Mr 
Purcell,  held  deservedly  in  remembrance. 

I  will  pass  over  without  many  details  the  next 
two,  or  even  three,  years.  They  were  peaceful  and 
happy,  ah!  happier  than  any  that  had  gone  before. 

Leonard  was  deprived  of  his  cure,  and  a  fat,  well- 
conditioned  man,  who  was  easy  going  and  good 
natured,  took  up  his  quarters  at  Burton  Rectory. 

It  was  by  God's  good  providence  that  I  had  a 
home  at  Ivy  Farm,  and  we  removed  thither  in  the 
springtime  of  1690. 

The  little,  neglected  church  of  the  parish  of  Herts- 
bury,  to  which  parish  Ivy  Farm  belonged,  was  left 

to  take  care  of  itself  by  a  non-resident  vicar.     He 

214 


IN  THE  CHOIR  OF  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY     215 

had  but  seldom  ministered  there,  paying  a  dull, 
careless  substitute  to  do  so  at  intervals.  The  Vicar 
was  a  rich  man,  and  held  two  other  livings  in 
different  parts  of  the  county,  so  that,  little  by 
little,  the  inhabitants,  like  myself  in  old  days,  had 
preferred  to  cross  the  fields  to  Burton  for  the 
ministrations  of  my  husband  in  that  church. 

I  will  not  pretend  that  it  was  no  trial  for  me 
to  leave  our  home,  and  it  was  a  greater  trial  for 
Leonard.  Such  goods  and  chattels  as  we  needed 
we  took  away  with  us,  and  my  desire  was  to  make 
all  things  as  easy  as  possible  for  Leonard.  His 
books  were  his  most  precious  possession,  and  I 
turned  out  the  old  storeroom  and  put  the  volumes 
in  order  on  the  shelves  which  my  stepmother  had 
always  filled  with  various  condiments,  spices,  pre- 
serves of  apples,  and  the  like. 

My  husband  took  a  journey  to  seek  the  opinion 
of  the  good  Bishop  Ken  as  to  the  manner  in 
which  he  should  hold  the  service  of  the  church, 
for  although  a  Non- Juror,  and  for  this  cause  unable 
to  receive  any  of  the  emoluments  as  a  clergyman, 
he  was  an  ordained  priest  and  must  say  the  office 
morning  and  evening,  according  to  his  ordination  vow. 

During  Leonard's  absence  I  set  myself  to  consider 
whether  one  of  the  barns  could  be  set  apart  as  a 
sort  of  oratory  or  private  chapel,  and  with  Mrs 


216  IN  THE  CHOIR  OF 

Turner's  assistance,  and  the  good  Joyce's,  who  fol- 
lowed us  from  Burton,  declaring  she  would  have 
no  wage  but  the  honour  of  serving  us,  the  barn 
was  not  only  cleared,  but  the  bare  walls  hung 
with  some  old  tapestry  we  discovered  in  a  chest. 
I  got  an  oak  table,  and  setting  it  at  the  eastern  end, 
I  covered  it  with  a  cloth,  on  which  I  wrought  a 
border  with  silks  left  of  a  store  Mrs  Purcell  had 
given  me  when  I  was  embroidering  a  chrisom  robe 
for  the  baby  Edward. 

There  was  only  a  square  opening,  scarce  to  be 
called  a  window,  in  the  barn,  but  my  good  serving- 
man  fitted  it  with  a  shutter  to  keep  out  rain  and 
storm,  and  I  looked  forward  to  get  it  glazed  when 
the  cost  was  determined. 

It  was  what  the  poet  Milton  called  a  dim,  re- 
ligious light  in  our  little  sanctuary,  but  it  was  a 
happy  day  for  me  when  I  saw  my  husband's  glad 
surprise  on  his  return,  and  calling  the  household 
together  the  next  morning  he  read  the  service  of 
the  Church,  and  then  prayed  for  the  blessing  of 
God  on  the  humble  place  where  we  desired  to 
worship  Him. 

I  found  it  was  a  sore  trouble  to  Leonard  to  learn 
how  many  of  the  Non-Jurors  were  turned  out  of 
house  and  home,  and  often  with  many  children, 
and  no  means  of  subsistence. 


WESTMINSTER  ABBEY  217 

'We  are  rich  in  this  world's  goods,  dear  heart, 
he  said,  '  when  we  compare  our  lot  with  that  of 
many.  I  have  taken  note  of  some  of  the  most 
needy  cases,  and  we  must  deny  ourselves  all  need- 
less luxury  to  assist  our  poorer  brethren.  You  are 
ready  to  agree  to  this?' 

How  could  I  do  other  than  agree?  How  could 
I  do  other  than  enter  heart  and  soul  into  the  plans 
formed  by  my  husband  for  the  relief  of  his  neces- 
sitous brethren  ? 

As  I  look  back  on  those  years,  it  may  be  there 
were  little  trials  and  vexations,  but  they  have  left 
no  trace  behind  them.  The  great  flood  of  an  all- 
pervading  love  has  effaced  them  from  memory.  I 
seem  only  to  think  of  myself  in  those  days  as  the 
happy  wife  of  a  noble  -  hearted  man,  who  would 
never  bate  one  inch  of  the  ground  on  which  he 
had  taken  his  stand  for  conscience  sake. 

If  he  had  needed  any  confirmation  in  the  line  of 
conduct  he  had  chosen,  he  would  have  had  it  in 
the  almost  cheerful  bravery  of  the  Bishop  of  Bath 
and  Wells.  What  it  was  to  him  to  leave  his  be- 
loved cathedral  city — scarce  more  than  a  cathedral 
village;  to  quit  the  beauteous  palace,  where  he 
entertained  the  poor  at  his  hospitable  board ;  to  say 
farewell  to  the  fair  grounds,  with  their  close-shaven 
lawns  and  terrace,  where  at  eventide,  like  one  of 


2i8  IN  THE  CHOIR  OF 

old,  he  meditated  and  uttered  words  of  praise  in 
the  hymn  which  is  dear  to  every  Christian  heart— 
who  can  tell  ? 

'  Sure,  with  such  an  example  before  me,'  my 
husband  said,  '  I  can  scarce  think  of  my  own  de- 
privation. I  have  a  home,  with  a  wife  who  loves 
me ;  nay,  I  am  too  much  favoured,  and  I  must  do 
my  part,  to  show  my  thankfulness  to  God,  who 
has  been  so  gracious  to  me.' 

In  the  spring  of  the  next  year,  what  I  had  known 
must  come  happened,  and  it  was  with  many  mis- 
givings I  went  to  the  hostel  to  meet  the  stage 
which  brought  back  Madge.  How  often  have  I 
taken  note  of  the  strange  difference  presented  be- 
tween anticipation  and  reality. 

Do  we  not  often  look  forward  to  some  future 
and  wished-for  good,  and  when  it  comes,  it  has 
far  less  of  delight  in  it  than  we  had  fancied.  And 
often  something  we  dread  and  think  of  as  a  cloud 
likely  to  darken  the  brightness  of  our  sky  turns 
out  to  be  a  blessing.  It  was  so  in  this  case. 

Madge,  still  filled  with  life  and  spirit,  still  free 
spoken,  still  of  an  independent  nature,  came  to 
take  up  her  abode  with  us,  to  be  as  a  sunbeam, 
not  as  a  cloud,  in  our  home.  She  was  now  a  tall 
maiden  of  sixteen,  and  she  had  made  such  good 
use  of  her  schooling  that  for  the  last  year  she  had 


WESTMINSTER  ABBEY  219 

been  kept  free  of  charge  for  her  services  in  teach- 
ing other  scholars. 

She  surprised  me  by  the  rapture  of  her  greeting, 
and  she  told  me  she  wanted  to  help  me  and  to 
live  with  me  always. 

'  I  will  do  all  you  tell  me.  I  will  try  to  make 
amends.' 

'  For  what  ? '  I  asked. 

'  Don't  you  know  that  I  know  how  ill  you  were 
used  by  poor  mother — by  us  all?' 

I  bid  her  say  naught  that  was  harsh  of  the 
dead. 

'  Well,'  she  said,  '  I  will  speak  only  of  the  living 
— of  myself.  When  I  saw  you  devote  your  whole 
time  and  strength  to  my  sick  mother,  whom  you 
had  small  cause  to  love,  I  said  naught  then,  but  it 
went  to  my  heart,  and  I  vowed  I  would  love  you 
always,  and  serve  you  to  my  last  breath.  There, 
now,  do  you  understand  ?  ' 

There  are,  sure,  moments  like  these  in  our  lives 
when  the  reward  granted  us  for  some  poor  service 
rendered  seems  too  much.  It  was  so  with  me  then. 
I  fell  weeping  on  Madge's  neck,  and  the  compact 
of  our  love  was  sealed,  never  to  be  broken. 

1691.  The  February  of  this  year  was  marked  by 
the  birth  of  my  dear  daughter  Frances,  named  as 


220  IN  THE  CHOIR  OF 

a  sign  of  my  friendship  with  her  godmother,  Mrs 
Purcell  of  Westminster,  for  absence  did  not  weaken 
my  love  for  my  dear  master  and  his  wife,  and  it 
was  a  great  joy  to  me  when  Mrs  Purcell  consented 
to  be  my  child's  sponsor,  and  agreed  to  bring  her 
babes  to  Ivy  Farm. 

We  had  room  and  to  spare  in  our  rambling 
old  house  for  them,  and  a  warm  welcome  to  give 
them. 

It  was  now  that  I  found  Madge  so  helpful.  She 
had  a  happy  way  of  entertaining  little  ones,  and 
Frances  Purcell  and  little  Edward  were  taken  daily 
by  her  into  the  fields,  returning  with  daisy  chains 
and  cowslip  balls,  with  the  rosy  hue  of  health  on 
their  faces. 

My  own  babe  was  scarce  ever  out  of  my  sight, 
either  in  my  arms  or  in  the  cradle  by  my  chair. 
She  was  a  marvellous  quiet  infant,  and  her  cries 
were  few.  Thus  Mrs  Purcell  and  I  had  ample 
time  for  talk  undisturbed.  I  had  much  to  hear 
and  much  to  tell. 

'  My  husband/  Mrs  Purcell  said,  one  morning, 
when  we  were  together  in  our  sunny  parlour,  'de- 
plored Master  Perceval's  decision,  but  I  shall  tell  him 
you  need  no  pity.  You  have  a  pleasant  home  and 
you  look  the  picture  of  contentment.  You  have 
better  health  than  I  was  ever  blessed  with,'  and 


WESTMINSTER  ABBEY  221 

Mrs  Purcell  sighed.  '  You  have  a  husband  always 
near  you  and  tending  you,  while  mine  is  now  so 
full  of  commissions  and  continuous  work  I  see  but 
little  of  him.' 

'Surely,'  I  said,  'you  are  more  than  ever  proud 
of  him  ? ' 

'  Yes,  proud !  How  can  I  help  it  ?  But,  all  the 
same,  I  would  fain  see  more  of  him  ;  and  I  some- 
times fear  he  is  sapping  away  his  strength  by  too 
late  hours,  and  by  being  at  the  beck  and  call  of 
all  who  choose  to  use  his  wonderful  gifts.  Master 
Dryden's  notice  and  friendship  pleases  him  mightily. 
He  is  a  great  man,  no  doubt,  but  he  serves  his  own 
ends  by  making  much  ado  over  my  husband.  In 
the  Preface  to  "  King  Arthur,"  Master  Dryden  says 
he  was  guided  entirely  by  my  husband  in  prepar- 
ing it  for  the  stage.' 

As  Mrs  Purcell  talked  to  me  of  all  the  events 
in  the  world  of  London  I  felt  myself  ignorant.  My 
whole  thoughts  of  late  had  been  centred  on  the 
deprived  clergy,  and  of  doing  my  part  in  help- 
ing Leonard  to  send  what  we  could  spare  for 
the  sustenance  of  many  who  were  well  nigh 
starving. 

Music  was  as  ever  my  delight,  and  I  played  on 
the  harpsichord  and  tuned  the  viol  for  singing  verses 
of  the  Psalms  in  our  little  chapel,  but  as  Mrs  Purcell 


222  IN  THE  CHOIR  OF 

spoke  of  the  play  'King  Arthur/  amongst  other 
things,  I  had  to  confess  I  had  never  heard  of  it. 

Mrs  Purcell  laughed,  saying, — 

'  You  are  happy  if  ignorant ;  but  Henry  bid  me 
instruct  you  in  his  late  successes,  and  especially  in 
this  friendship  with  Master  Dryden.  I  laugh  in  my 
sleeve  when  I  hear  that  Master  Dryden  is  often 
in  fear  of  arrest  for  debt,  and  finds  it  mighty  con- 
venient to  go  to  Henry's  apartment  in  the  Clock 
Tower  at  St  James's  Palace,  where  he  is  safe  and 
enjoys  the  air  and  scene.' 

Again  I  was  surprised.  I  had  not  heard  of  my 
dear  master,  by  virtue  of  his  Court  appointment, 
having  this  apartment  at  St  James's  Palace,  and 
this  and  much  more  was  news  to  me. 

'  No  wonder  Master  Dryden  writes,  in  his  Dedi- 
cation to  "King  Arthur,"'  Mrs  Purcell  said,  '"that 
nothing  in  the  play  was  better  than  the  music,  which 
has  arrived  at  a  greater  perfection  than  formerly, 
especially  passing  through  the  artful  hands  of 
Master  Purcell,  who  has  composed  it  with  so 
great  a  genius.'" 

'This  is  high  praise/  I  said,  'and  must  be  sweet 
to  you.' 

'  Ay,  sweet,  but  bitter  with  it/  she  replied.  '  What 
if  my  husband's  health  breaks  down — all  Master 
Dryden's  soft  words  won't  build  it  up.  He  has 


WESTMINSTER  ABBEY  223 

given  up  the  post  of  copyist  to  the  Abbey,  and 
quite  right  he  is  to  do  so.  He  missed  your  help 
at  first,  Betty,  but  he  has  employed  several  youths 
to  aid  him  now.  As  for  me,  I  find  the  children's 
needs  as  much  as  I  can  get  through.  You  are  now 
in  the  happiest  time  of  a  mother's  life,  with  your 
first  child  content  and  healthy.  How  different  was 
my  lot — giving  birth  to  my  first-born  only  to  see 
him  die  !  I  mourn  my  dead  babes  still ! ' 

'  But  you  have  the  joy  of  two  happy,  healthful  chil- 
dren. See  them  now  coming  through  the  pleasance 
bedecked  with  flowers,  and  little  Edward  singing 
as  he  comes.' 

'Yes,'  Mrs  Purcell  said,  'he  sings  in  tune  and 
hums  airs  his  father  plays  him  in  a  wonderful 
fashion.  He  has  got  music  in  him,  and  Henry  is 
set  on  bringing  him  on  to  follow  in  his  steps.' 

Madge  now  came  in  with  the  children,  making 
such  a  hullabaloo  that  my  baby  started  and 
whimpered.  Edward  flung  himself  in  his  mother's 
arms,  and  Frances  hung  a  daisy  chain  round  her 
neck.  A  pretty  scene,  I  thought,  though  Mrs 
Purcell  had  scarce  enough  control  over  her  children. 

'  I  will  have  more,'  I  thought,  in  that  proud  self- 
satisfaction  which  is  often  seen  in  those  who  are 
as  yet  ignorant  of  the  toils,  as  well  as  the  pleasures' 
of  motherhood. 


224  IN  THE  CHOIR  OF 

In  good  sooth  my  Frances  has  borne  out  the 
character  accorded  her  in  her  infant  days,  of  being 
the  best-tempered  and  most-easy-to- manage  child 
that  ever  blessed  a  home  with  her  presence. 

Madge  whispered  sometimes  in  my  ear  that  little 
Fan  and  Edward  were  over-fed,  and  had  too  much 
of  their  own  way,  though  not  with  such  evil  results 
as  in  her  case  and  Tom's. 

'  What  wretches  we  were  to  you  ;  and  yet,  when 
you  were  gone  to  Westminster,  I  remember  sitting 
on  the  doorstep  and  crying  till  Tom  came  and 
pommelled  me,  and  said  I  was  a  fool  for  my  pains. 
Poor  Tom  !  I  was  not  a  kind  sister  to  him,  and 
when  he  got  that  bad  throat  I  ran  away,  poor 
craven  that  I  was.' 

Leonard  did  not  fail  to  gain  what  news  he  could 
from  Mrs  Purcell  of  Susanna,  for  whom  he  had 
a  true  affection,  though  her  marriage  with  William 
Mountfort,  binding  her  in  still  closer  connection 
with  the  stage  and  the  actors,  was  contrary  to 
his  wishes.  My  husband's  father  was  a  quiet 
country  yeoman,  who  had  brought  him  up  with 
a  view  to  college  and  taking  holy  orders.  His 
niece  Susanna,  having  lost  her  mother  when  a 
little  child,  had  been  taken  care  of  by  Leonard's 
good  parents,  with  whom  she  lived  till  both  passed 
away — regarded  more  as  their  daughter  than  their 


WESTMINSTER  ABBEY  225 

niece.  Hence  the  great  affection  which  had  sub- 
sisted between  my  husband  and  his  cousin — sister, 
he  would  often  call  her — and  he  had  been  much 
distressed  when  Susanna  returned  to  her  father, 
and  was  quickly  drawn  into  love  of  the  stage  and 
the  actors  and  actresses. 

Mrs  Purcell  had  but  little  to  tell  me  about  William 
Mountfort,  but  she  said  there  was  much  talk  about 
Mrs  Bracegirdle  and  her  numerous  admirers — none 
more  favoured  than  another — but  plots  had  been 
discovered  more  than  once  for  her  abduction  by 
lawless  men,  who  thought  only  of  their  own 
pleasure  and  gratification.  Before  Mrs  Purcell  left 
us,  she  was  urgent  for  me  and  the  babe  to  travel 
to  Westminster  and  stay  in  Dean's  Yard  with  her. 

'You  that  were  such  a  constant  worshipper  in 
the  Abbey,  and  a  devotee  of  music,  you  must  long 
to  be  there  again  and  hear  Henry  bring  forth  the 
beauty  of  the  organ,  as  no  one  else  does.  I  declare,' 
Mrs  Purcell  said,  'you  shall  come;  this  buried  life, 
far  from  every  one,  will  get  a  weariness  after  a 
time.' 

'  Weariness  ! '  I  said.  '  How  can  that  be,  with 
Leonard  and  my  babe,  the  poor  to  succour,  the 
affairs  of  the  farm  to  be  attended  to,  how  can  I 
be  weary?  Yes,  I  love  Westminster,  but  my  duty 
and  my  highest  pleasure  lie  here.' 

P 


226  IN  THE  CHOIR  OF 

Mrs  Purcell  laughed,  saying,  I  had  always  been 
a  riddle  to  her,  and  yet,  she  added,  'a  riddle  I 
love  to  find  out,  and  I  find  out  this  much,  that 
you  are  the  dearest  little  friend  I  have  in  this 
world.  Henry  often  says  when  he  is  in  trouble 
with  a  chorister,  or  his  deputy  organist,  or  when 
he  is  hunting  high  and  low  for  a  sheet  of  music, 
"If  Betty  were  here,  she  would  soon  set  things 
right."' 

This  was  all  pleasant  hearing  for  me,  yet  I  was 
more  than  content  to  have  left  Westminster,  the 
music — yes,  even  the  music  and  the  Abbey  ser- 
vices— for  had  I  not  a  home  brightened  by  the 
sunshine  of  love? 

The  condition  of  the  clergy  who  would  not  take 
the  oaths  became  more  painful  as  the  winter  drew  on. 

1692.  In  the  February  of  the  year  1692  a 
very  extraordinary  snow,  for  depth  and  continu- 
ance, made  the  state  of  the  poor  unhoused  clergy 
very  sad.  Often,  with  their  wives  and  children,  they 
came  near  perishing  for  want  of  food  and  shelter. 

The  little  church  of  Hertsbury  was  entirely 
deserted,  and  through  all  the  winter  months  no 
curate  came  near  it. 

Thus  Leonard  felt  free  to  invite  the  villagers 
to  come  to  our  little  chapel.  We  had  the  win- 


^F^?^PH 

CHOIR  OF  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY. 


WESTMINSTER  ABBEY  227 

dow  glazed  now,  and  it  was  kept  fairly  warm 
by  a  wood  fire  which  we  kindled  on  an  open 
hearth.  Leonard  having  cleverly  opened  out  a 
rude  sort  of  chimney  at  the  farther  end.  With- 
out some  heat  in  this  bitter  winter  we  could  not 
have  worshipped  there,  or  asked  others  to  do  so. 
It  was  often  hard  for  me  to  think  of  the  fair 
church  at  Burton,  not  two  miles  away,  with  its 
easy-tempered  Rector  having  a  service  as  it 
suited  him,  and  the  people  for  whom  my  husband 
had  laboured,  and  done  his  utmost  to  bring  into 
the  true  and  real  communion  with  the  Church — 
taking  good  Mr  George  Herbert  for  his  model — 
drifting  off  to  a  conventicle,  where  a  Puritan 
teacher  denounced  all  Church  doctrine  as  popery, 
and  frightening  his  hearers  with  the  terrors  of  hell 
unless  they  chose  to  come  out  from  her  and  be, 
as  he  said,  separate ! 

By  good  Joyce's  assistance  and  Madge's  help 
we  managed  to  keep  broth  ready  for  the  poor, 
when  needed.  We  also  baked  many  more 
loaves  than  our  household  needed,  and  dispensed 
these  with  what  milk  we  could  spare.  What  with 
charity  at  home,  and  the  money  sent  abroad  to 
our  distressed  fellow  Non-Jurors,  we  were  bound  to 
spend  as  little  as  might  be  on  ourselves. 

Leonard's    cassock   was   much  worn,   and  having 


228  IN  THE  CHOIR  Ot> 

given  his  thick  cloak  to  a  poor  clergyman  who 
had  begged  a  night's  shelter,  and  evidently  had 
a  terrible  rheum,  I  was  sorely  troubled  how  to 
replace  it. 

But  Madge,  ever  quick-witted,  bought,  out  of 
her  own  purse,  a  roll  of  black  homespun  from  a 
pedlar  who  came  to  the  door  with  his  wares,  and 
she  set  to  work  with  scissors  and  needle,  and  with 
her  clever  fingers  fashioned  a  wonderfully  good 
cloak  out  of  it.  Enough  was  left  to  make  me  a 
cape,  which  she  lined  with  some  sarcenet  found  in 
a  chest,  then,  with  some  skins  bought  of  a  mole- 
catcher,  she  contrived  a  warm  wrap  for  my  little 
Frances,  the  mole  skins  being  so  soft  and  silky 
and  yet  light  for  my  baby's  wear. 

So  we  got  through  the  winter,  and  many  happy 
hours  we  spent  by  the  light  of  a  lamp  hanging 
from  the  rafters  in  the  kitchen — for  we  would  not 
afford  two  fires — sometimes  reading,  sometimes 
singing  to  my  viol ;  and  when  alone  together, 
Madge,  after  a  day's  work,  having  gone  to  rest, 
Leonard  and  I  would  hold  sweet  converse  together, 
our  babe  sleeping  in  the  cradle  at  my  feet,  and 
scarce  ever  disturbing  us  by  a  cry. 

Leonard  also  wrote  and  studied  a  great  deal, 
always  taking  pains  to  make  his  sermons  such 
as  would  suit  his  hearers — just  as  much  pains 


WESTMINSTER  ABBEY  229 

did  he  take  as  if  he  were  to  preach  them  before 
the  King  and  Queen,  instead  of  our  own  labourers 
on  the  farm  and  a  few  villagers. 

One  afternoon  we  were  surprised  by  the  appear- 
ance of  Mr  Blankly,  the  possessor  of  our  Burton 
living. 

'  So,'  he  said,  '  I  find  you  are  Lord  and  Lady 
Bountiful  of  the  countryside.  Well,  well,  I  see 
no  objection,  though  some  may  say  you  use  bribes 
to  get  the  folks  to  your  meeting-house.  You  may 
leave  my  parishioners  alone,  an  it  please  you, 
Master  Perceval.' 

Leonard  was  much  disturbed  by  this  view  Mr 
Blankly  took  of  what  we  did. 

'  Indeed,  sir,'  he  said,  '  my  old  parishioners — ' 

'Your  old  parishioners,'  Mr  Blankly  interrupted. 
'  They  are  mine  now,  and  more  fool  you  that  it 
is  so.' 

'  Your  parishioners,  sir,  know  my  mind  concerning 
them,  namely,  that  I  desire  them  to  be  faithful  to 
the  church  at  Burton,  and  to  be  obedient  to  your 
wishes,  attend  services  regularly,  and  obey  the 
injunctions  of  the  Church  as  to  Holy  Communion.' 

'  Well,  well,  I  have  no  wish  to  quarrel,  Master 
Perceval ;  both  you  and  madam  seem  to  have  stolen 
the  hearts  of  some  of  my  people,  and  I  suppose 
I  must  put  up  with  the  theft,  eh  ?  But  this  barn 


230  IN  THE  CHOIR  OF 

of  yours  is  but  a  conventicle,  and  you  may  have 
some  Puritan  fellow  bawling  in  it,  for  all  you 
know.  There's  naught  to  prevent  it.' 

Leonard  maintained  an  outward  composure,  but 
I  saw  by  the  working  of  his  lower  lip  that  he  was 
greatly  troubled. 

'Yes,  sir,'  he  said,  'there  is  something  to 
prevent  it — even  my  will.  I  would  ask  you  to 
believe  that  those  who  attend  the  services  in 
what  you  are  pleased  to  call  my  barn  are 
my  own  labourers  chiefly,  with  their  wives 
and  children,  and  a  handful  of  poor  folk 
who  belong  to  this  church,  the  deserted  church 
of  Hertsbury,  where  no  minister  now  takes  any 
duty,  and  it  is  in  fact  fast  going  to  rack  and 
ruin.' 

'That  matter  should  be  sifted/  Mr  Blankly  said. 
'  His  reverence,  who  owns  the  cure,  is  not  one  of 
your  sort,  Master  Perceval.  He  is  too  far  sighted 
and  sharp  witted  to  be  a  Non-Juror — like  me 
you'll  say —  But  I'll  look  into  it,  and  have  him 
brought  to  task.' 

I  now  offered  Mr  Blankly  a  cup  of  hot  spiced 
ale,  and  some  cake  made  by  Madge.  This 
appeared  to  please  him ;  he  called  for  a  second 
cup,  and  said  the  ale  would  keep  out  the  cold, 
and,  he  added  with  a  smile,  'keep  in  the  temper.' 


WESTMINSTER  ABBEY  231 

Finally,  he  chucked  me  more  familiarly  than  I 
liked  under  the  chin,  and  made  as  if  he  would 
kiss  me.  But  I  averted  this  and  was  glad  to  see 
the  last  of  him. 

'  A  careless,  self-seeking  man,'  I  said.  '  How 
can  he  take  solemn  vows  upon  him  ? ' 

'  There  are  many  such,  Betty,'  my  husband  said. 
'They  are  men  who  look  to  the  Church  for  a 
living,  as  another  may  look  to  the  law,  or  another 
to  trade.' 

'  It  angers  me  to  think,'  I  -said,  '  that  you  are 
deprived  for  a  man  like  Master  Blankly.  It  is  a 
crying  shame;  it  is  wicked  and  unrighteous.' 

'Gently,  Betty,  gently,'  Leonard  said.  'You 
must  not  forget  that  I  have  voluntarily  given 
up  Burton,  and  my  successor  is  not  to  blame, 
being  appointed  by  the  State  to  succeed  me.' 

'  I  cannot  help  it,'  I  said ;  '  nay,  I  cannot 
help  it.  Master  Blankly  is  a  usurper  of  your 
rights,  just  as  the  King  is  a  usurper  of  King 
James's.' 

'Nay,  sweet  heart,'  my  husband  said,  'there  are 
two  sides  to  all  questions.  No  true-hearted  son 
of  the  Church  could  desire  to  see  the  kingdom 
drifting  back  to  the  power  of  the  Pope,  with  all 
the  errors  of  doctrine  and  practice  from  which  our 
forefathers  were  delivered  when  the  yoke  of  Rome 


232  IN  THE  CHOIR  OF 

was  shaken  off.  Doubtless  the  new  rule  is  a  bless- 
ing, though  maybe  in  disguise.' 

Soon  after  this  Leonard  began  seriously  to  ques- 
tion whether  he  did  well  to  remain  in  the  near 
neighbourhood  of  the  cure  of  which  he  had  been 
deprived.  Troubles  arose  through  the  emptying  of 
the  church  at  Burton  and  the  filling  to  overflowing 
of  our  chapel. 

In  the  autumn  of  this  year,  Leonard,  after  much 
anxious  thought  and  prayer,  decided  to  seek  council 
once  more  of  Bishop  Ken  as  to  our  future.  On 
his  journey  thither  he  caught  a  severe  chill,  and 
I  had  a  messenger  sent  from  Westminster  by  Mr 
Purcell  with  the  dire  news  that  my  husband  was 
under  their  roof  in  a  dangerous  condition,  and  that 
I  must  at  once  set  forth  to  join  him. 

And  now  what  a  support  I  had  in  Madge,  She 
helped  me  to  put  all  things  in  order,  and  promised 
to  manage  the  farm,  and  to  see  the  serving-men 
did  their  duty. 

Madge's  masterful  spirit  and  resolution  were  now 
to  be  of  good  service  to  me.  With  my  babe  in 
her  arms  she  set  out  with  me  to  the  hostel  whence 
the  stage  started.  Old  Giles,  still  strong  and  hearty, 
followed  with  the  heavy  baggage  on  a  barrow,  and 
Joyce,  with  a  light  basket  filled  with  my  baby's 
clothes  and  pap-boat. 


WESTMINSTER  ABBEY  233 

My  heart  was  heavy  within  me.  It  was  bitter 
to  me  to  say  farewell  to  our  home,  to  the  chapel 
where  we  had  so  often  knelt  to  pray,  to  my  people 
and  the  villagers,  who  came  out  in  that  chill,  dim 
October  morning  to  wish  me  God-speed  and  to 
hope  that  I  should  find  his  reverence  in  better 
health  than  I  feared.  Madge  kept  up  my  spirits 
by  her  own  bright  anticipations. 

'You  will  find  him  well-nigh  recovered,  depend 
on  it,  and  you  will  soon  be  here  again.  Now, 
Joyce,'  Madge  said  sharply,  as  she  saw  Joyce's 
falling  tears,  '  what  are  you  making  an  ado  for  ? 
A  poor  way  that  to  cheer  the  mistress.  Look  at 
little  Frances,  how  she  is  springing  in  my  arms,  I 
can  scarce  hold  her,  and  laughing  as  she  says, 
"  Daddy  !  daddy  !  I'm  going  to  daddy !  " ' 

My  Frances  was  ever  a  forward  child,  and  now, 
at  a  year  and  eight  months  old,  she  could  prattle 
and  try  to  be  understood. 

I  could  not  take  Joyce  with  me,  so  I  set  forth 
on  my  long  journey  alone.  Joyce  was  of  great  im- 
portance in  the  house.  I  could  not  leave  Madge 
without  her  help. 

I  recalled  my  start  into  the  unknown  world 
beyond,  when  a  child  of  scarce  sixteen,  and  the 
feeling  of  desolation  and  banishment  which  op- 
pressed me  then.  Now  I  had  my  child  and  I 


234  IN  THE  CHOIR  OF 

was  on  my  way  to  see  my  husband.  It  was  true 
I  knew  not  how  it  fared  with  him,  but,  at  least,  I 
should  see  him  and  tend  him,  and  bring  him  back 
at  last  sound  and  well. 

The  little  group  at  the  stage  door  waving  good- 
byes, my  little  Frances  blowing  kisses  to  them,  I 
can  see  before  me  now.  Soon  the  parting  was  over  ; 
the  stage  rumbled  off.  I  craned  my  neck  out  of 
the  unshuttered  window  for  a  last  look,  and  I  saw 
Madge,  who  had  smiled  and  laughed  to  the  last 
moment  as  she  stood  by  the  door,  cover  her  face 
with  her  hands,  weeping  bitterly. 

'  How  she  loves  me ! '  I  thought.  '  God  be  thanked 
for  her,  and  the  staff  and  stay  she  has  been  to  me.' 

The  journey  was  long — we  made  but  slow  way,  and 
only  those  who  have  had  to  travel  with  a  sore  heart, 
scarce  knowing  what  news  is  waiting  at  the  journey's 
end,  can  tell  how  the  dull  thud  of  the  horse's 
hoofs  seemed  to  beat  into  my  brain,  how  every 
jolt  and  every  hindrance  in  the  way  seemed  to  be 
unbearable. 

Twilight  faded,  darkness  came  on,  the  October 
day  had  closed  in,  and  still  on,  on,  and,  as  it 
were,  no  nearer  the  end. 

My  child  slept  peacefully,  while  I  sat  with  wide- 
open  eyes,  gazing  out  into  the  gloom.  Would 
the  journey  never  end  ? 


WESTMINSTER  ABBEY  235 

So  slow  had  been  the  progress  that  those  thirty 
miles  were  like  three  hundred  to  my  anxious 
heart,  which  grew  more  anxious  and  less  hopeful 
every  hour  that  passed. 

'  I  cannot  bear  it  much  longer,'  I  said,  as  we  came 
to  a  halt.  A  lanthorn  gleamed,  there  were  voices 
of  men  as  they  handed  down  some  heavy  luggage 
from  the  roof. 

'Where  are  we?'  I  cried,  putting  my  head  out 
of  the  window.  '  Pray  tell  me,  is  it  much  further  to 
London  ?  Oh  !  I  pray  you,  tell  me  ! ' 

'  Six  odd  miles,'  was  the  reply.  '  You  are  in  a 
mighty  hurry,  young  woman.' 

I  drew  back  and,  clasping  my  child  closer  to  my 
breast,  sat  upright.  Again  the  dull  beat  of  the 
horses'  hoofs  and  the  jolting  and  rumbling  of  the 
clumsy  wheels. 

'  I  ought  to  pray  for  patience/  I  said,  reasoning 
with  myself.  'Why  can't  I  pray?  Leonard  would 
pray,'  and  with  his  name,  uttered  in  my  distress, 
a  flood  of  tears  poured  forth,  and  I  think  my  desire 
to  pray  was  accepted  and  heard,  for  the  frightful 
tension  of  suspense  loosened,  and  I  said,  'God's 
will  be  done.' 

I  was  met  at  the  hostel  this  time  by  my  dear 
master  himself.  Ah,  how  the  sound  of  his  voice 
thrilled  me ! 


236  IN  THE  CHOIR  OF 

He  did  not  wait  for  a  question,  but  took  the 
child  from  my  arms,  saying, — 

'  Welcome,  Mistress  Perceval ;  your  husband  fares 
better  than  we  could  have  hoped,  and  longs  for 
your  presence.' 

With  thoughtful  kindness,  Mr  Purcell  had  a  chair 
hired,  and  he  placed  me  in  it  with  the  child,  saying, — 

'The  baggage  shall  follow  by  a  carrier.  I  know 
you  are  anxious  to  be  at  Westminster.' 

As  I  have  said,  deep  emotion  ever  made  me  dumb. 
I  could  find  no  words  wherewith  to  thank  my  dear 
master.  Just  as  the  men  lifted  the  poles,  and  we 
were  swinging  out  of  the  hostel  yard,  I  thought 
how  ungracious  I  must  seem.  I  cried  out  then, — 

'  Hold  !  hold  !  for  one  instant.' 

The  chair  was  set  down,  and  Mr  Purcell's  head 
was  at  the  window. 

1  What  ails  you,  Betty  ? ' 

'  Nothing,  only  I  never  thanked  you  for  your 
goodness.' 

'  Is  that  all  ?  You  will  have  time  to  do  that 
later.  I  am  going  by  command  to  Whitehall  to 
play  before  the  Queen,  but  these  chairmen  will 
take  you  safe  to  Dean's  Yard,  and  my  wife  is 
looking  out  for  you.  My  mother  is  there  also,  so 
good-even  to  you.' 

To  wait  on  the  Queen  by  command !     Mr  Purcell 


WESTMINSTER  ABBEY  237 

must  be  in  favour  at  Court!  Yes,  I  was  soon  to 
learn  that  he  was  now  courted  by  the  noble  and 
great,  and  that  his  fame  had  spread  far  and  wide. 

In  another  half-hour  I  was  folded  to  Mrs  Pur- 
cell's  heart. 

'  What  is  it  ? '  I  asked.     '  What  ails  my  husband  ? ' 

'  He  has  had  a  bleeding  from  the  chest,  but  the 
danger  is  past ;  only  you  must  be  wary — he  is  not 
to  speak.' 

I  was  about  to  take  my  child  to  the  chamber 
where  Leonard  lay,  when  old  Mrs  Purcell  shook 
her  head. 

'No,  no,  give  her  to  me.' 

I  did  my  utmost  to  be  calm,  but  my  knees  seemed 
to  refuse  to  bear  me  up  the  stairs. 

Leonard  received  me  with  a  smile,  and  as  I  bent 
over  him,  he  whispered, — 

'  God  has  decided  for  me.  I  shall  never  return 
to  Hertsbury.' 

'  Hush !  dear  heart,  you  must  not  speak.' 

He  smiled  again,  and  closed  his  eyes,  holding  my 
hand  in  a  firm  grasp,  and  I  thanked  God  I  was 
with  him. 


BOOK    VI 

1692-1694 

'  In   quietness   and   in   confidence   shall   be  your    strength. 
— ISAIAH  xxx.  15. 


CHAPTER  XI 

A.  D.     1692 

IT  soon  became  apparent  that  my  husband,  though 
delivered  from  the  near  approach  of  death,  was  in 
a  condition  for  which  rest  and  quiet,  ay,  and  silence, 
were  the  only  remedies. 

To  return  to  Ivy  Farm  was  impossible,  and  to 
intrude  on  the  household  of  Mr  Purcell  for  any 
prolonged  time  appeared  to  us  both  an  encroach- 
ment on  his  friendship  and  goodness,  and  that  of 
Mrs  Purcell.  Their  circumstances  had  changed 
since  I  first  entered  their  house. 

Mr  Purcell  was  now  much  in  request  in  the 
circles  of  the  nobility,  giving  lessons  on  harp- 
sichord and  organ,  and  often  commanded  to 
appear  at  Whitehall  to  perform  before  the  Queen. 

Mr  Purcell's  intimacy  with  Mr  Dryden  also  con- 
spired to  bring  him  to  the  notice  of  all  poets  or 
rhymesters,  who  hung  about  him  with  requests 

Q 


242  IN  THE  CHOIR  OF 

that  he  would  write  music  to  some  song  or  ballad 
which  was  mostly  beneath  his  notice  as  a  com- 
poser. 

Susanna  Mountfort  came  often  to  get  tidings  of 
Leonard's  state. 

She  was  truly  attached  to  him,  but  her  conversa- 
tion, lively  as  it  was,  had  reference  to  things  in 
which  he  had  no  interest,  and  ofttimes  he  was 
weary  of  her  well-intended  anecdotes. 

But  she  was  of  use  to  me  in  the  dilemma  I 
found  myself  as  to  what  our  future  was  to  be. 
She  told  me  of  part  of  a  house  in  Duke  Street, 
where  Mrs  Arabella  Hunt,  a  singer  and  performer 
on  the  lute,  had  lived,  and  was  now  moving  to 
better  quarters,  and  would  fain  let  out  the  rooms 
in  it  on  hire. 

It  would  be  an  easy  removal  to  the  house,  and  I 
went  to  inspect  it,  with  the  view  of  taking  it  as 
soon  as  Leonard  could  be  removed  thither. 

I  found  Mrs  Hunt  very  ready  to  accommodate 
me,  and  in  spite  of  Mrs  Purcell's  remonstrances 
I  decided  to  accept  Mrs  Hunt's  offer. 

The  removal  was  effected  with  greater  ease  than 
I  had  feared,  and  Mrs  Hunt  was  out  of  the  house 
about  the  middle  of  November ;  and  having  good 
supplies  from  our  farm,  sent  by  carrier  by  Madge, 
with  money  also  from  the  proceeds  of  the  harvest, 


WESTMINSTER  ABBEY  243 

we  were  at  ease,  and  thankful  to  be  in  our  own 
home  again. 

A  good  serving-maid  was  part  of  the  bargain, 
and  I  was  thus  set  free  to  attend  continually  to  the 
wants  of  him  who  was  dearest  to  me  in  the  world. 

Little  Frances  throve  apace,  and  many  an  hour's 
anxiety  was  whiled  away  by  her  innocent  prattle 
and  her  sunny  temper.  I  know  all  mothers,  looking 
back  over  the  past  years,  are  prone  to  think  no 
babes  equal  to  what  their  own  were,  yet  I  do 
affirm,  from  first  to  last,  my  Frances  was  as  the 
angel  of  my  life  and  the  darling  of  her  sick  father's 
heart. 

Leonard  was  not  idle.  As  soon  as  he  could 
wield  a  pen  he  began  to  write  short  discourses  and 
explanations  of  the  service  book  of  the  Church, 
which,  as  he  said,  might  be  useful  now  his  voice 
could  no  longer  be  heard.  I  made  fair  copies  of 
these,  and  sent  them,  one  or  two  at  a  time,  to 
Madge,  instructing  her  to  read  them  to  the  people 
when  they  came  to  hear  the  lessons  and  psalms 
read  by  her  twice  a  day  in  our  little  chapel. 

The  people  loved  thus  to  listen  to  their  dear 
master's  words,  and,  though  absent  in  body,  he 
was  present  with  them  in  spirit. 

Madge,  who  wrote  a  wondrous  clear  hand,  was 
faithful  to  me  and  to  my  interests,  and  she  kept 


244  IN  THE  CHOIR  OF 

a  diary,  which  she  sent  in  parts  weekly  by  the 
stage,  with  the  parcels  of  home  produce,  cakes, 
manchets  of  fine  bread,  conserves  of  apples  just 
ready,  and  other  dainties  which  might  tempt 
Leonard's  appetite. 

I  found  my  way,  as  often  as  I  could  leave  my 
husband,  to  the  much-loved  Abbey,  and  on  Sunday 
to  the  Chapel  Royal,  where  Mr  Purcell  had  brought 
the  choir  well-nigh  to  a  state  of  perfection.  The 
Reverend  Mr  Gostling,  my  early  friend,  was  still 
a  chorister  there,  and  his  bass  voice  had  lost  nothing 
of  its  depth  and  richness. 

He  came  to  visit  me  soon  after  we  were  settled 
in  Duke  Street,  and  gave  us  news  of  the  outer 
world,  of  which  we  knew  as  little  as  when  we 
were  at  Hertsbury. 

I  must  record  one  of  his  visits  here,  because  Mr 
Gostling  gave  us  the  first  note  of  warning  as  to 
the  increased  spite  and  malevolence  displayed  by 
certain  admirers  of  Mrs  Bracegirdle,  which  were 
noticed  in  many  quarters,  'Your  good  cousin, 
Mistress  Mountfort,  sir,'  he  said,  addressing  my 
husband,  'may  have  told  you.' 

Leonard  shook  his  head. 

'  Nay,'  he  said,  '  we  have  heard  nothing  of  this ; 
but  we  live  not  in  the  world,  though  so  near  it.' 

'  Well,  well,  let  it  pass !      I   may  be  a   croaking 


WESTMINSTER  ABBEY  245 

raven,  but  I  know  full  well  jealousy  is  cruel  as 
the  grave.  Here  is  a  young  poetaster  appeared 
of  late,  who  has  fallen,  like  many  another,  at 
Mistress  Bracegirdle's  feet.  His  name  is  Congreve, 
and  there  is  an  amazing  hot  alliance  between 
him  and  Master  Dryden.  He  is  everywhere  about 
the  town — in  the  Park  and  the  playhouse  and  the 
coffee-house.  They  say  that  from  the  first  moment 
he  saw  Mistress  Bracegirdle  in  one  of  her  best 
parts,  he  swore  he  would  write  a  play  worthy  of 
her,  and  bring  her  fame  which  should  throw  all  that 
has  preceded  it  into  the  shade.  So,'  said  Mr 
Gostling,  'here  is  another  added  to  Mistress 
Bracegirdle's  lovers,  and  another  cause  of  danger 
added  to  some  who  win  her  favour  and  the 
hatred  of  those  who  fail  to  do  so.  I  believe  Anne 
Bracegirdle  to  be  a  pure,  good  woman,'  Mr 
Gostling  said ;  '  but  who  is  safe  from  slanderous 
tongues  when  exposed,  as  she  is,  to  the  publicity 
of  the  theatre?' 

I  had  never  forgotten  Mrs  Bracegirdle  and  my 
adoration  of  her,  so  that  all  I  could  hear  of  her 
was  eagerly  listened  to. 

Mr  Gostling  told  us  on  another  occasion  that 
Queen  Mary  had  been  much  taken  by  the  melody 
of  an  old  ballad,  '  Cold  and  raw,'  which  all  the 
young  ruffians  sang  through  the  streets. 


246  IN  THE  CHOIR  OF 

'  For  my  part,'  Mr  Gostling  said,  '  though  I 
have  sung  the  bass  part  in  it  many  a  time  and 
oft  I  never  thought  it  would  be  honoured  as  it 
has  been  by  a  queen's  notice.  One  afternoon  the 
Queen,  minded  to  be  diverted  by  music — and,  poor 
soul !  I  think  she  needs  diversion  from  troubled 
thoughts — sent  off  for  me  and  Henry  Purcell  and 
Mistress  Arabella  Hunt,  in  whose  room  we  are  now 
sitting,  to  sing  and  play  to  her.  My  bass  and 
Mistress  Hunt's  fine  treble  and  pretty  lute  playing, 
with  Henry  Purcell  on  the  harpsichord,  made  a 
charming  "  concord  of  sweet  sounds."  Henry 
Purcell's  songs  are  ever  full  of  music,  and  the 
Queen  was  pleased,  we  hoped.  At  last  the  Queen 
suddenly  said  to  Mistress  Hunt, — 

' "  That  is  all  fine  grave  music ;  sing  me  the 
old  Scots  ballad  beginning  '  Cold  and  raw.' " 

'  Mistress  Hunt  tuned  her  lute  and  sang  it  twice ; 
the  Queen,  clapping  her  hands  and  laughing,  beat 
her  small  feet  to  the  time. 

'  I  saw  a  cloud  gathering  on  Henry  Purcell's 
face  as  he  sat  by  the  harpsichord  with  his  fingers 
idle  before  him.  But  his  sweet  temper  soon 
conquered  the  chagrin  he  felt. 

'  As  we  left  the  presence  of  the  Queen  together, 
he  said, — 

' "  By   my  faith,  if  the  Queen  is   so  taken  by  a 


WESTMINSTER  ABBEY  247 

vulgar  little  ballad,  and  finds  it  better  than  our 
music,  she  shall  have  it." 

'  So,  in  the  birthday  song  of  this  year,  in  the  lovely 
air  Purcell  has  composed  to  the  words,  "  May  her 
bright  example,"  the  bass  is  the  very  tune  of 
"  Cold  and  raw,"  note  for  note  the  same,  showing 
not  only  Purcell's  good  nature  but  his  genius, 
for  who  but  he  could  have  wedded  the  matchless 
air  of  his  own  beautiful  composition  to  the  common 
tune  of  the  old  ballad  ? 

'  He  seems  to  me  a  greater  marvel  every  day,' 
Mr  Gostling  said,  '  but  I  do  not  like  his  looks 
at  times.  His  eyes  are  too  bright — they  burn 
with  the  hidden  fire,  and  there  is  a  restlessness 
in  him — to  be  ever  reaching  forward  to  attain 
more  than  he  has  yet  attained.' 

Mr  Gostling's  visits  always  cheered  and  enter- 
tained my  husband.  He  had  the  great  gift  of 
never  seeming  hurried. 

Sick  folk  always  chafe  against  those  who  come 
to  see  them,  and  say  they  have  but  a  few  minutes 
to  spare  and  must  haste  away.  Mrs  Purcell  and 
Susanna  had  something  of  this  haste  about  them. 

'No  sooner  here  than  gone  again,'  Leonard 
said  one  day,  with  a  sigh,  when  Susanna  had 
come  in,  filled  with  the  success  of  a  play  she 
had  taken  part  in  with  Mrs  Bracegirdle  and 


A. 


248  IN  THE  CHOIR  OF 

Mrs  Barry ;  '  but  I  want  no  other  companions 
than  my  little  Frances  and  her  mother.' 

It  was  a  December  day  when  a  message  was 
brought  up  to  Leonard's  chamber  that  a  gentle- 
woman was  waiting  to  see  me  in  the  parlour  below. 

'On  particular  business,'  our  serving-maid  said. 

For  one  instant  it  flashed  over  me  that  it  might 
be  Madge,  bearing  bad  news  from  Ivy  Farm,  and 
I  went  down  in  a  state  of  wonder  and  alarm. 

A  figure  in  a  long  cloak  and  hood  drawn  close 
over  her  face  advanced  towards  me. 

'This  is  Mistress  Perceval.'  A  voice  clear  as  a 
bell  —  like  music  —  repeated,  '  This  is  Mistress 
Perceval.' 

'Yes,'  I  cried.  'Yes,  and  you  are  Mistress 
Bracegirdle.  No  one  has  a  voice  like  yours.' 

'  Ah !  is  it  so  ? '  she  said,  throwing  back  her 
hood,  and  displaying  her  beautiful  face,  not 
wreathed  in  smiles  now,  but  with  an  anxious, 
troubled  look  in  her  lovely  eyes.  '  I  am  come  to 
beg  you  to  do  me  a  service.' 

'  Oh !  madam,  there  is  nothing  I  would  not 
do  to  serve  you,'  I  replied. 

Mrs  Bracegirdle  sank  down  on  the  nearest  chair, 
and  said, — 

'  Dear  child !  I  have  not  forgot  you.  You  are 
married  to  Susanna  Mountfort's  brother.' 


WESTMINSTER  ABBEY  249 

'  Her  brother  by  affection,  madam,  but  in  truth 
her  cousin.' 

'  Ah !  I  had  heard  as  much.  Now  hearken ! 
for  time  presses.  There  is  a  plot  hatched,  or 
hatching,  which  means  ruin  to  me.  That  brave 
and  true  man,  William  Mountfort,  has  a  sus- 
picion of  it.  He  has  set  himself  to  find  out 
how  it  is  to  be  accomplished,  determined  to 
frustrate  their  evil  designs.  I  want  you,  Mis- 
tress Perceval,  or  Betty — little  Bet — I  must  still 
call  you,  to  give  William  Mountfort's  wife  warn- 
ing that  these  wicked  men  would  fain  get  rid 
of  him.  By  no  means  suffer  him  to  go  out  of 
his  house  this  night  on  any  pretext  whatsoever. 
He  is  looked  on  as  my  guardian,  and  thus  he 
is  their  enemy  who  would  fain  carry  me  off. 
Not/  she  said,  speaking  with  all  the  fire  which 
she  could  put  into  her  words — 'not  that  they 
will  gain  their  wicked  ends.  I  would  run  a 
knife  through  the  villain  first,  ere  he  got  posses- 
sion of  me,  ere  he  touched  a  hair  of  my  head. 
If  I  went  to  Susanna  Mountfort,  it  would  be 
found  out,  it  would  rouse  suspicion ;  but  if  you 
go  ostensibly  to  inform  her  of  your  husband's 
state,  or  to  take  her  a  letter  from  him,  it 
will  seem  but  a  natural  thing.  Will  you  do 
this  ? ' 


250  IN  THE  CHOIR  OF 

'When,  madam?' 

'  Before  nightfall — now.' 

'  Yes,  madam/  I  said ;  '  I  will  do  your  bid- 
ding, though  first  I  must  gain  my  husband's 
leave.' 

'  No,  you  must  not  divulge  your  errand,  even 
to  him.' 

'  I  cannot  hide  aught  from  my  husband,'  I 
said.  '  He  will  keep  the  secret  well ;  there  is  no 
one  to  whom  he  can  confide  it ;  it  is  safe.  He 
never  leaves  his  sick  chamber ;  except  for  myself 
and  baby  daughter,  but  few  enter  it.' 

'  Start  quickly,'  Mrs  Bracegirdle  said ;  '  do  not 
delay,  I  beseech  you,  I  pray  you.' 

Who  could  resist  Mrs  Bracegirdle?  Her  plead- 
ing voice,  her  hands  clasped  in  entreaty. 

'  I  must  hasten  away ;  my  chair  and  servants 
await  me.  I  dare  not  delay,  nor  do  you  delay, 
and  may  God  prosper  your  errand  and  reward 
you.'  She  put  her  arms  around  me,  and  gazing 
down  into  my  face,  she  said,  'You  look  guileless 
as  ever — a  child  still,  and  happy.' 

'  Nay,  madam,'  I  said,  '  I  am  a  proud  wife  and 
mother,  and  I  have  known  sorrow.  My  husband 
has  been  deprived  of  his  living,  and  he  is  very 
sick,  so  that  he  will,  the  physician  says,  never 
use  his  voice  again  without  danger  to  life.' 


WESTMINSTER  ABBEY  251 

Mrs  Bracegirdle  kissed  me  once  more,  saying 
in  a  low  whisper, — 

'  It  is  life  or  death — life  or  death,  remember,' 
and  then  she  drew  her  cloak  round  her  and  was 
gone. 

I  stood  for  a  moment  where  she  had  left  me, 
and  questioned  whether  I  should  tell  Leonard  of 
the  errand  to  Susanna  Mountfort.  I  decided 
that  he  must  know,  for  I  left  him  so  seldom, 
and  my  absence  unexplained  would  cause  him 
anxiety. 

At  first  he  was  unwilling  I  should  undertake 
a  walk  through  the  streets  unprotected,  but  when 
I  repeated  Mrs  Bracegirdle's  words,  'It  is  life 
or  death,'  he  gave  way  and  bid  me  perform  my 
errand  before  the  short  day  closed  in. 

I  rose  up  with  a  good  courage,  and  found  the 
streets  in  Westminster  less  full  of  people  than  I 
had  feared. 

I  could  not  resist  the  impulse,  and  turned  into 
the  Abbey,  where,  evensong  over,  Mr  Purcell  was 
playing  the  organ. 

I  knelt  on  the  hard  pavement  as  I  had  knelt 
years  before,  and  prayed  for  help,  and  that  God  would 
take  me  under  His  protection — a  woman  threading 
her  way  alone  through  the  streets  of  the  city. 

I  rose  up  strengthened,  and  set  forth  again,  not 


252  IN  THE  CHOIR  OF 

running,  as  I  felt  much  disposed  to  do,  for  fear  of 
attracting  attention. 

A  group  of  gentlemen  were  standing  round  the 
door  of  a  coffee  house  as  I  passed,  and  the  footway 
was  blocked. 

I  turned  off  into  the  road,  when  one  of  them 
cried, — 

'Whither  away?'  and  laid  a  hand  on  my  cloak, 
trying  with  the  other  to  lift  my  hood.  '  A  fair 
face,  forsooth  !  Come,  let  us  see  more  on't.' 

I  summoned  all  my  courage,  and,  instead  of 
struggling,  I  said  firmly, — 

'  I  must  beg  you,  sir,  to  let  me  pass.  I  am  abroad 
on  urgent  business.' 

A  laugh,  joined  in  by  another  man,  was  accom- 
panied by  the  words, — 

'  I'll  warrant  it  is  urgent,  but  your  lover  must 
wait.  You  must  give  us  a  slice  of  your  company 
first,  and  let  us  drink  your  health  in  a  mug  of 
good  wine.' 

My  courage  began  to  fail,  and  my  heart  beat 
fast,  but  I  turned  on  my  tormentors  and  said, — 

'Leave  me  to  pursue  my  way,  nor  attempt  to 
detain  me,  if  you  call  yourselves  honourable 
gentlemen.' 

'Well  spoken.  The  Bracegirdle  could  not  sur- 
pass this.  A  veritable  tragedy  queen.' 


WESTMINSTER  ABBEY  253 

And  now,  to  my  relief,  help  came.  Another  man 
came  out  of  the  coffee  house  to  see  what  was 
happening. 

It  was  Edmund  Pelham.  He  thrust  aside  the 
two  men  and  cried, — 

'For  shame!  to  molest  a  gentlewoman  in  this 
fashion.' 

'  Oh  !  Edmund,'  I  cried,  '  help  me ! ' 

In  another  moment  he  had  drawn  my  hand  in 
his  arm,  and,  turning  upon  the  men,  said, — 

'  This  gentlewoman  is  under  my  protection,  and 
I  will  conduct  her  to  her  destination.  You  might 
well  go  down  on  your  knees  and  crave  her  pardon 
for  your  unmannerly  behaviour.' 

A  mocking  laugh  was  the  rejoinder,  and  one  of 
the  men  said, — 

'  I  am  well  pleased  that  this  gentlewoman  is  under 
such  safe  conduct.  I  hope  she  will  be  duly 
grateful  to  her  deliverer.' 

'Whither  are  you  going,  Betty ?'  Edmund  asked. 

'To  Mr  Mountfort's  house.  I  have  a  message 
for  his  wife.' 

'  It  is  ill  done  of  your  husband  to  let  you  go 
through  the  streets  unprotected.  Methinks  it  shows 
but  scant  devotion  to  you.' 

'  Do  not  speak  thus  of  my  husband,  Edmund. 
He  is  laid  on  a  sick  couch,  whence  it  is  doubtful 


254  IN  THE  CHOIR  OF 

whether  he   ever  rises.     I  came  with  his  leave,  but 
the  reason  for  doing  so  is  what  I  can  tell  to  no  one.' 

'  Not  even  to  me  ? '  Edmund  said.  '  Not  even 
to  me?' 

'  No,'  I  replied,  '  certainly  not  to  you.' 

'  Well,  you  have  come  out  of  your  way  to  Mount- 
fort's  house.  A  chance  if  you  find  either  him  or 
his  wife  in  their  house  when  you  get  there.  They 
have  a  play  rehearsing,  which  is  to  be  a  grand 
affair.  Mistress  Mountfort  is  acting  as  well  as  her 
husband,  and  made  much  of.' 

It  was  as  Edmund  Pelham  said.  When  we 
reached  the  Mountforts'  house  in  Norfolk  Street,  in 
the  Strand,  we  were  told  by  a  young  woman,  whom 
we  found  sitting  in  the  midst  of  a  heap  of  finery 
for  the  stage,  which  she  was  adapting  to  the 
character  Susanna  was  to  take,  that  it  was  likely 
Mrs  Mountfort  would  return  ere  long. 

Then  I  must  await  her  return,'  I  said.  '  I  have 
a  message  for  her  which  must  be  delivered  by 
myself.' 

The  seamstress,  for  this  she  was,  threw  a  log  on 
the  hearth,  gathered  up  a  handful  of  brocades  and 
gold  lace,  and  left  the  parlour. 

Edmund  still  lingered,  and,  as  I  looked  at  him, 
my  heart  was  filled  with  sadness  on  his  account. 

The  handsome  face  was  still  handsome,  but  there 


WESTMINSTER  ABBEY  255 

was  but  little  left  of  the  Edmund  whose  coming 
had  been  the  looked-for  pleasure  of  my  childhood 
at  Ivy  Farm. 

There  were  traces  on  his  face  and  in  his  whole 
bearing  of  one  who  had  drunk  deep  of  the  pleasures 
of  the  world.  He  was  extravagantly  dressed,  his 
hair  perfumed, "  his  curls  tied  with  a  gold  and  red 
riband.  In  the  midst  of  all  my  anxious  thought 
as  to  my  errand  and  how  it  was  to  be  accomplished, 
I  gave  thanks  that  I  was  the  wife  of  a  man  like 
my  husband,  even  though  he  lay  sick,  and  was, 
so  the  physician  said,  not  like  to  be  ever  sound 
in  health  again. 

Edmund  talked  with  well  -  chosen  words,  and 
gave  me  tidings  of  my  stepmother's  sons — both 
in  the  Navy,  and  one  distinguished  for  valour  in  the 
battle  of  the  Boyne.  Notice  had  been  taken  of 
him  by  Mr  Pepys,  and  he  was  sure  to  be  promoted. 

Edmund  was  obliged,  he  said,  to  meet  a  man 
who  had  entrusted  him  to  defend  a  suit  in  Chancery, 
and  therefore,  when  the  clock  struck  six,  he  left 
me,  saying  he  would  return  and  conduct  me  to 
Dean's  Yard,  unless  William  Mountfort  did  it. 

An  hour's  solitude  and  watching  followed.  A 
servant  brought  in  fresh  firewood,  and  said  Mrs 
Mountfort  would  be  at  home  ere  long,  for  she  had 
bid  her  prepare  supper  at  seven  o'clock. 


256  IN  THE  CHOIR  OF 

I  remembered  Mrs  Bracegirdle's  words, — 

'  On  no  account  whatsoever  let  William  Mountfort 
leave  his  house  this  evening.' 

Now  I  found  he  had  left  it,  and  how  could  I 
give  the  warning  to  Susanna  which  she  desired. 
At  last  she  came  in,  throwing  off  her  cloak  and 
saying  she  had  gone  over  her  part  till  she  was 
sick  in  Mr  Congreve's  play,  'The  Old  Bachelor,' 
where  Mrs  Bracegirdle  was  to  act  Araminta. 

'That  is  a  good  part,  worthy  of  a  fine  actress; 
but  mine  is  a  trumpery  one  and  I  shall  try  to 
get  a  better.  There  is  time.  The  play  can't  be  on 
the  boards  till  after  Christmas  now.'  I  think 
Susanna  saw  I  looked  grave,  and  scarcely  heeded 
what  she  said.  '  Is  Leonard  worse  ? '  she  asked. 
'  I  think  you  keep  him  too  dull  and  moped ;  he 
wants  to  be  roused  and  amused.  Master  Congreve's 
play  would  make  even  Leonard  laugh.' 

'  I  did  not  come  hither  about  Leonard,'  I  said. 
'  I  bring  a  message  from  Mistress  Bracegirdle  that 
your  husband  was  by  no  means  to  leave  the  house 
this  evening.' 

'  How  is  that  ?  What  does  she  mean  ?  You 
speak  in  riddles,  Betty.  Mistress  Bracegirdle  was 
not  at  the  rehearsal.  It  was  only  the  subordinate 
folk  like  myself  who  were  there.  Neither  was 
William  there.  What  can  this  mean  ? ' 


WESTMINSTER  ABBEY  257 

'  I  fear  me,  Susanna,'  I  said,  '  it  means  there  is 
danger  to  William's  life.' 

'  I  cannot  believe  it ;  and  if  it  be  so,  what  am  I  to  do? ' 

'  Can  you  find  out  where  he  is,  so  that  a  messenger 
could  be  sent  to  him  ? ' 

'To  tell  him  not  to  leave  the  house  when  he 
has  left  it!  How  foolish  you  are,  Betty!' 

'  Well,  foolish  or  not,  I  have  delivered  my 
message,  and  I  would  beg  you  not  to  disregard 
it.  Mistress  Bracegirdle  appeared  greatly  distressed.' 

I  don't  know  how  it  was  that  Susanna  took 
what  I  said  lightly.  She  seemed  determined  not 
to  be  alarmed. 

At  last,  feeling  I  could  do  no  more,  I  said, — 

'  I  am  anxious  to  go  back  to  my  husband. 
Edmund  Pelham  promised  to  return  for  me.' 

'Then,  wait  till  he  appears.  Dear  heart,  I 
would  that  I  knew  where  Will  is ;  but  as  he  was 
not  at  the  theatre,  I  am  at  a  loss.  I  wish  he  were 
safe  in  the  house.' 

So  did  I,  most  earnestly. 

Presently  we  heard  voices  in  the  street  below. 
The  parlour  was  on  the  second  floor,  and  as  the 
voices  grew  louder  and  louder,  and  a  cry  as  of 
one  in  pain  rang  through  the  still  air  of  the 
December  night,  Susanna  opened  the  lattice  and 
looked  out. 

R 


258  IN  THE  CHOIR  OF 

'  There  is  a  riot,'  she  said.  '  There  is  a  scuffle 
just  at  our  door.  Come  down,  Betty,  and  let 
us  see  what  it  means.' 

Meanwhile  the  hubbub  in  the  street  grew  louder 
and  louder. 

I  followed  Susanna  down  the  stairs  and  heard 
her  cry,  almost  scream, — 

'Who  is  it?— who  is  hurt?' 

Edmund  Pelham's  voice  answered, — 

'  Mr  Mountfort  is  wounded.  We  have  hold  of 
one  of  the  miscreants ;  the  other — ' 

'  William  !  Will,  oh,  my  dear  Will ! '  for  two  men 
were  slowly  bearing  upstairs  the  nearly  lifeless 
form  of  William  Mountfort,  the  blood  pouring  from 
a  wound  in  his  side. 

He  was  laid  upon  the  couch,  groaning  terribly. 
His  wife  flung  herself  on  her  knees  by  his  side, 
and  was  beside  herself  with  terror  and  grief. 

They  had  summoned  the  nearest  surgeon,  and, 
till  he  came,  I  tore  off  my  kerchief  and  tried  to 
staunch  the  wound. 

All  in  vain.  The  life-blood  ebbed  fast,  and  the 
pallor  of  death  was  on  Mountfort's  fair  and  beautiful 
face.  He  recovered  the  power  of  speech,  and  said 
in  a  far-away  voice, — 

'  Susanna,  dear  wife,  hearken  !  I  have  been  absent 
all  day  doing  my  best  to  frustrate  the  wicked 


WESTMINSTER  ABBEY  259 

design  of  the  man  that  has  killed  me — for  I  am 
dying.' 

'  No,  no,  Will !  You  must  not  die ! '  Susanna 
cried. 

'Hush!  dear  love,  and  hearken.  Tell  her  I  have 
died  for  her  sake,  and  if  I  have  saved  her  from 
that  villain,  I — I  am  content1 

In  the  corner  of  the  room,  where  by  this  time 
many  people  were  collected,  a  boy  stood  shuddering 
and  terror-struck.  Two  men  held  him  in  a  firm 
grip,  and  he  seemed  like  one  paralysed  with  fear. 
I  heard  them  say  it  was  Lord  Mohun,  a  mere  lad 
of  scarce  seventeen  years  old. 

Presently  William  Mountfort  turned  his  dying 
eyes  on  the  culprit,  and  said  in  a  whisper,  growing 
fainter  and  fainter  each  word  he  spoke, — 

'He  did  not  strike  the  blow.  It  was  Hill — Cap- 
tain Hill.  Where  is  he?' 

'  Escaped  in  the  first  moments  of  confusion,'  Ed- 
mund Pelham  said ;  '  but  the  constables  are  on  the 
track.' 

'  Thank  God !  his  designs  are  frustrated,  and  he 
will  now  fear  to  pester  a  good  woman.  The 
bird  has  escaped  the  snare  of  the  fowler.  Give 
God  thanks,  dear  Sue.' 

As  far  as  I  know,  these  were  the  last  words  that 
fell  from  those  pale  lips. 


260  IN  THE  CHOIR  OF 

Before  long  the  news  had  spread,  and  William 
Mountfort's  friends  came  from  the  theatre — Mrs 
Barry,  with  Mr  Perceval,  Susanna's  father,  and 
others. 

The  house  was  full  of  indignant  questioners, 
vowing  vengeance  on  William's  murderer. 

'The  brutal  cowardice  of  the  villain  to  hit 
him  from  behind ! '  Mr  Perceval  said.  '  That 
wretched  boy  cowering  yonder  must  be  held 
as  guilty  as  if  he  had  stabbed  my  poor  son- 
in-law.  He  held  him  talking,  to  let  Hill  come 
up.' 

I  struggled  hard  against  a  feeling  of  faintness 
which  came  over  me,  but  it  was  in  vain.  I  had 
just  made  my  way  out  of  the  parlour,  when  I 
should  have  fallen  headlong,  had  not  someone 
saved  me. 

It  was  Mrs  Bracegirdle. 

'  So  you  have  failed  me,'  she  said ;  '  I  can  never 
forgive  you.  I  trusted  you,  and  you  have  failed  to 
do  my  bidding.  A  noble  life  is  lost' 

Her  words  roused  me,  and,  with  streaming  tears, 
I  faltered  out, — 

'  Nay,  do  not  reproach  me,  madam ;  I  made  my 
way  hither,  and  waited  for  the  return  of  Mistress 
Mountfort  When  she  came,  I  prayed  her  to 
find  out  where  Master  Mountfort  was,  and  she 


WESTMINSTER  ABBEY  261 

could  not  tell  me;  she  did  not  know.  I  did  my 
utmost,  and  your  reproaches  wring  my  heart' 

'  Poor  child !  poor  child !  I  would  not  be  harsh 
to  you — but,  oh !  hearken  ! — hearken  ! ' 

For  the  groans  of  one  in  mortal  agony  fell  on 
our  ears  from  the  parlour  where  the  dying  man 
lay. 

I  broke  away.  I  was  not  wanted.  I  could  do 
naught  to  help,  and  I  knew  Leonard  would  be  in 
distress  at  my  long  absence. 

Ah !  what  thankfulness  filled  my  heart  when  a 
well-known  voice  came  from  the  crowd  at  the  door. 

'  Oh !  Master  Purcell,'  I  cried,  '  take  me  home — 
take  me  to  my  husband.' 

'  Betty !  What  can  have  brought  you  to  this  scene 
of  horror  and  confusion  ?  ' 

'  I  cannot  tell  you  now — only  help  me  to  get 
home ! ' 

Mr  Purcell  asked  no  further  questions.  He  put 
his  arm  round  me  and  drew  me  through  the  crowd 
which  blocked  the  street — some  crying  vengeance 
on  the  murderer,  and  threatening  to  tear  Lord 
Mohun  in  pieces  if  they  could  get  at  him. 

A  terrible  scene,  indeed ;  and,  as  I  write  of  that 
December  night,  all  the  dread  and  horror  come 
back  to  me. 

Mr  Purcell  saw   a   chair   standing,   with  servants 


262  IN  THE  CHOIR  OF 

and  torches,  at  the  further  end  of  the  street,  which 
opened  into  a  square. 

'  Here,'  he  said,  '  take  this  gentlewoman  to  Duke 
Street,  and  you  shall  have  your  reward.' 

'This  chair,  sir,  is  Mistress  Bracegirdle's.  We 
have  just  put  her  down ;  we  are  not  at  liberty  to 
allow  any  one  else  to  make  free  with  it' 

'  Mistress  Bracegirdle  shall  hear  from  me  that  this 
gentlewoman  has  made  use  of  her  chair.  I  am 
well-known  to  her,  and  so  is  Mistress  Perceval.' 

Then,  without  more  ado,  he  ordered  the  men  to 
lift  the  roof  of  the  chair,  and,  helping  me  into  it, 
he  repeated  his  orders  and  in  another  moment  I 
felt  myself  borne  away  at  a  rapid  pace. 

The  chair  was  a  luxurious  one  furnished  with  satin 
cushions,  into  which,  weary  and  overcome  with  all 
I  had  gone  through,  I  sank  back  exhausted. 

I  had  no  money  wherewith  to  pay  the  men,  but 
I  detached  a  small  locket  from  a  chain  and  said, — 

'You  can  sell  this  and  divide  the  price  a  gold- 
smith will  give  you,  and  tell  your  mistress,  Mistress 
Betty  Perceval  sends  her  thanks  for  the  service  you 
have  rendered  her.' 

The  head  lacquey  demurred  and  would  not  take 
the  locket. 

'  Nay,  madam,  we  take  your  word  for  it,  and  if  we 
have  served  a  friend  of  our  good  mistress  we  need 


WESTMINSTER  ABBEY  263 

no  pay.  This  has  been  a  bad  night's  work/  he  added, 
'  and  it  will  go  near  to  break  our  lady's  heart.' 

The  door  of  the  house  was  quickly  opened  and 
our  good  serving-maid  cried, — 

'  Thank  God  you  are  safe,  madam !  The 
master — ' 

I  waited  to  hear  no  more  but  flew  up  the  stairs  to 
Leonard's  room.  Then  I  paused  at  the  door  ere  I 
lifted  the  latch.  I  feared  to  do  him  harm  if  I  entered 
in  too  much  haste.  I  tried  to  still  the  beating  of 
my  heart,  and  went  softly  into  the  chamber. 

Oh,  the  joy  of  kneeling  down  by  my  husband's 
couch  and  hearing  him  say, — 

'  You  have  been  long — very  long  away,  sweet- 
heart; but  I  committed  you  to  God's  keeping  and 
felt  secure  that  you  would  return  unharmed.' 

'  Unharmed,  yes  ;  but  all  was  in  vain.  The  warn- 
ing was  not  in  time,  and  William  Mountfort  has 
been  foully  murdered.' 

'  Ah !  what  tidings  !  Poor,  bereft  Susanna !  and  I 
lie  here  and  can  do  naught  to  comfort  her.  You 
shall  tell  me  all  details  when  you  have  rested.  See, 
here  is  our  good  Mattie  with  a  cup  of  wine  for  you 
and  a  morsel  of  the  good  pasty  you  made  this 
morning.  My  poor,  brave  little  wife/  he  said,  caress- 
ing my  hair  and  holding  one  of  my  hands  firmly  in 
his.  'You  have  been  brave  and  have  done  your  best.' 


264  IN  THE  CHOIR  OF 

'But  I  have  failed,  Leonard — I  have  failed.' 

'  Do  not  dwell  on  this,  dear  heart ;  but  when  you 
are  refreshed  with  the  food  you  must  surely  need, 
you  shall  tell  me  all — not  yet,  not  yet,'  for  I  was 
rehearsing  all  that  had  happened  in  my  mind,  and 
a  violent  shuddering  seized  me.' 

Mattie  wisely  held  the  cup  to  my  lips,  and  breaking 
up  the  pasty  into  morsels,  she  fed  me  as  she  would 
have  fed  my  little  Fan.  Then,  as  I  grew  calmer, 
Leonard  watching  me  with  anxious  eyes,  Mattie 
began  to  relate  what  an  angel  of  goodness  Fan  had 
been  all  the  long  hours  of  my  absence,  and  how 
Mrs  Purcell  had  brought  in  her  Master  Edward, 
who  seemed  so  mightily  taken  with  my  Fan  he  did 
naught  but  kiss  her  and  say  he  would  fain  take  her 
home  with  him,  he  liked  her  better  than  his  little 
sister. 

'  Bring  me  Fan,'  I  said  ;  '  let  me  have  her  in  my 
arms.  She  will  comfort  me.' 

'  She  is  asleep  in  her  cot ;  sure  you  would  not 
wake  her,  the  sweet  heart.' 

'  Do  bring  her,'  I  repeated  ;  *  I  want  to  hold  her  in 
my  arms.' 

'  Yes,'  Leonard  said  ;  '  yes,  Mattie,  bring  hither  our 
child.' 

'Ah!  how  sweet  is  the  comfort  a  little  child  can 
give.  When  Mattie  brought  our  babe,  though  her 


WESTMINSTER  ABBEY  265 

blue  eyes  were  dim  with  slumber,  her  cheeks  like  a 
damask  rose,  she  never  whimpered,  but  smiled, 
saying,— 

'Mother — mother  is  come  home — kiss.' 
I  took  her  and  held  her  close,  and,  her  dear  arms 
clinging  to  my  neck,  she  was  soon  asleep  again. 

As  I  looked  in  her  little  face,  pure  and  fair  as 
an  angel,  I  thought  of  Mrs  Bracegirdle's  words, 
'  Would  that  I  were  an  innocent  child  playing  in 
the  cowslip  fields  again/  and  I  prayed  that  my 
sweet  babe  might  be  guarded  from  the  wickedness 
of  the  world  and  kept  safe  from  the  blight  of  sin 
and  of  evil. 


CHAPTER    XII 

A.  D.    1693 

THE  murder  of  William  Mountfort  threw  a  gloom 
over  the  beginning  of  this  year,  and  none  felt  the 
tragedy  of  his  death  more  than  did  my  husband. 

He  had  a  brother's  affection  for  Susanna,  and  he 
deplored  her  widowed  condition  on  all  accounts,  and 
hoped  her  father  would  persuade  her  to  leave  the 
stage,  at  anyrate  for  a  time. 

The  miscreant,  Captain  Hill,  made  good  his 
escape,  and  left  the  unhappy  boy  of  scarce  seventeen 
to  be  arraigned  for  the  murder  in  which  he  had  been 
but  an  accomplice. 

The  trial  of  Lord  Mohun  by  his  peers  in  West- 
minster Hall  was  memorable  for  the  interest  it 
caused,  the  King  coming  to  be  present  at  it 

and    watching    the    proceedings    on    several     days, 

266 


IN  THE  CHOIR  OF  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY     267 

for  the  trial  was  drawn  out  to  a  very  extra- 
ordinary length ;  and  on  the  fifth  day,  though  the 
evidence  of  Lord  Mohun's  guilt  was  clear,  his  peers 
acquitted  him  by  sixty-nine  votes  to  fourteen. 
Some  said  this  was  owing  to  pity  for  his  youth,  and 
that  a  voice  was  heard  saying, — 

'Take  the  boy  away  and  whip  him.' 

Mr  Purcell,  who  was  present  at  the  last  day  of 
the  trial,  told  us  this,  and  added, — 

'  If  he  had  been  whipped  sooner,  the  better  for  him; 
he  has  run  a  long  course  of  wickedness,  young  as  he 
is,  and  he  will  now  go  from  bad  to  worse.  Imprison- 
ment would  have  kept  him  out  of  mischief  for  a 
few  years.' 

The  horror  of  that  scene  in  Norfolk  Street  had 
affected  me  very  sensibly,  and  I  was  sick  in  body 
and  mind,  and  seldom  left  the  house. 

What  news  we  heard  of  the  outside  world  was 
brought  by  Mrs  Purcell,  and  she  did  her  best  to 
cheer  me.  It  was  she  who  brought  the  tidings  that 
Susanna  Mountfort  was  taking  the  part  of  Belinda 
in  Mr  Congreve's  play  of  '  The  Old  Bachelor,'  and 
this  so  soon  after  William's  awful  death. 

It  seemed  incredible  that  one  so  lately  made  a 
widow  should  take  a  part  in  any  play,  more  especi- 
ally one  of  a  comic  character. 

'  Her   father  permitting  it    removes  responsibility 


268  IN  THE  CHOIR  OF 

from  me,'  my  husband  said,  '  but  I  must  see  Susanna 
and  do  my  best  to  change  her  purpose.' 

Susanna  obeyed  Leonard's  summons,  and  came  to 
our  house  in  a  chair,  clad  in  the  heaviest  weeds  of 
widowhood. 

I  had  not  seen  her  since  that  fearsome  night,  and 
I  could  scarce  refrain  from  weeping.  Susanna  herself 
was  graver  than  her  wont,  and  after  greeting  us 
both  and  saying  little  Frances  was  an  angel  of 
beauty,  she  sat  down  by  Leonard's  side,  saying, — 

'  You  tell  me  I  ought  not  to  go  on  the  boards  so 
soon  after  Will's  death.  You  do  not  know  what  it  is  to 
be  an  actress.  What  does  it  matter  to  Master  Con- 
greve  the  author,  and  Master  Davenant  the  manager 
of  the  Theatre  Royal  if  our  hearts  are  whole  or  breaking? 
Does  young  Master  Congreve  care  whether  I  act  the 
witty  part  of  Belinda  with  sorrow  or  joy  so  long  as 
I  do  it?  Not  he — not  he;  he  is  adding  another  to 
the  train  of  Anne  Bracegirdle's  lovers,  and  he  will 
not  have  the  play  he  wrote  to  bring  her  out  in  as 
Araminta  spoiled  by  want  of  good  supporters  in 
the  inferior  parts.  Think  what  it  is  to  him  to  lose 
by  death  not  only  William — William,  who  would  have 
taken  the  part  of  Vainlove,  was  at  the  rehearsals 
unrivalled — but  Master  Nokes  and  Master  Leigh — 
both  splendid  in  their  several  parts — are  likewise 
dead !  If  I  refuse  to  act,  the  play  will  suffer,  and 


WESTMINSTER  ABBEY  269 

what  Master  Congreve  calls  the  quartette  of  beauties 
will  be  spoiled.  No,  I  must  do  it.  There  is  no  help 
for  it.  Leonard,  do  not  look  at  me  thus,  as  if  you 
heard  my  death-warrant  was  signed.' 

'  I  do  look  at  you  with  sorrow/  Leonard  said. 
'We  were  children  together,  and  your  mother  was 
as  a  mother  to  me.  Do  you  not  recall  how,  when 
your  father  took  to  the  stage  and  left  his  home  to 
follow  the  profession,  she  kept  you  close  to  her 
side?  And  when  you  mimicked  the  old  people  in 
the  village  and  made  me  laugh  at  your  clever  hits, 
she  would  look  sad  and  grave?  Think  of  your 
mother,  dear  Sue.' 

'  Think  of  her ! '  she  exclaimed  passionately.  *  I 
never  forget  her,  but  I  am  praised  and  applauded 
by  my  father,  and  Will  was  so  proud  of  me.  Oh ! 
my  poor,  lost  William  ! ' 

Then  a  flood  of  tears  and  sobs  and  cries,  as  if 
her  heart  were  breaking,  made  Leonard  draw  her 
closer  and  soothe  her  as  though  she  were  his  own 
little  Frances. 

I  left  them  together,  and  after  half-an-hour  had 
passed,  Susanna  came  out  of  the  chamber,  and, 
bidding  me  a  hasty  farewell,  ran  quickly  to  the 
door,  where  her  chair  awaited  her. 

The  play  of  'The  Old  Bachelor'  was  a  mar- 
vellous success.  The  whole  town  was  all  agog 


270  IN  THE  CHOIR  OF 

to  see  it,  and  Mr  Congreve's  triumph  was 
complete. 

Mr  Purcell  came  in  for  much  praise  for  the  music 
he  had  composed  for  it,  which  seemed,  if  it  were 
possible,  to  tighten  the  friendship  between  him  and 
Mr  Dryden.  For  Mr  Dryden  had  conceived  a  very 
great  admiration  for  young  Mr  Congreve,  and  it 
was  by  his  means  that  this  play  of  'The  Old 
Bachelor'  was  fashioned  to  suit  the  taste  of  the 
playgoers  and  the  public  at  large. 

It  will  seem  that  I  was  much  bound  up  with 
theatrical  folk,  but  I  may  say  that,  though  I  had 
been  much  enthralled  by  seeing  plays  acted  in  which 
Mrs  Bracegirdle  took  part,  I  had  an  increased  shrink- 
ing from  the  stage  as  a  profession.  I  saw  its  perils, 
and,  as  in  the  case  of  Susanna,  I  saw  how  often 
the  woman,  even  in  grief,  must  be  lost  in  the 
actress. 

It  is  not  for  me  to  be  censorious  or  to  lay  down 
hard  rules,  but  often,  as  I  looked  on  my  own  little 
Frances,  I  would  pray  earnestly  that  no  allurements 
or  persuasions,  if  perchance  she  showed  a  gift  for 
acting,  should  lead  her  to  take  up  the  stage  as  a 
means  of  livelihood. 

My  health  gave  way  at  this  time,  and  after  the 
birth  of  our  second  child,  little  Elizabeth,  I  was 
reduced  to  a  very  pitiable  condition  of  weakness. 


WES TMINSTER  ABBE  Y  27 1 

My  husband,  although  better,  had  still  to  be 
cautious  as  to  exposure  to  a  cold  atmosphere, 
and  the  spring  of  this  year  was  more  like  winter 
than  spring.  Snowstorms  were  followed  by  an 
amazing  rainfall,  and  my  babe  came  into  a  cold 
world  indeed,  and  was  difficult  to  rear  in  con- 
sequence. I  was  unable  to  do  aught  for  her, 
and  my  husband,  seeing  how  weak  and  help- 
less I  was,  sent  for  Madge  to  come  to  us,  for 
happily  Mrs  Turner  had  taken  up  her  abode 
at  the  farm  till  such  time  as  we  could  return 
thither. 

I  cannot  say  how  welcome  Madge  was.  She  was 
full  of  life  and  spirit,  and  won  the  praise  of  Mrs 
Purcell  for  her  care  of  me. 

'  I  thought  you  could  not  endure  nursing  the 
sick,'  I  said  to  her  one  day ;  '  and  now  you  are 
the  best  of  nurses.' 

'  Ah !  but  I  have  the  best  of  sick  folk  to  nurse ; 
that  makes  it  easy.' 

Madge  entertained  us  with  accounts  of  Ivy  Farm 
and  the  easy-going  Rector  of  Burton. 

'  He  grows  fatter  every  day,  and  lives  in  great 
luxury,  eating  and  drinking  more  than  is  good  for 
him,'  she  said.  '  He  comes  to  visit  me  sometimes, 
and,  although  only  a  walk  of  less  than  two  miles, 
he  always  asks  for  a  cup  of  ale.  No  one  comes 


272  /A   THE  CHOIR  OF 

near  the  little  church  of  Hertsbury,  and  there  is  a 
conventicle  now,  hard  by  the  mill,  to  which  numbers 
of  people  resort  Old  Joe,  the  miller,  some- 
times preaches  when  there  is  no  one  besides  to 
do  so.  I  could  laugh  to  think  of  it.  I  have  yet 
a  few  faithful  souls,  and  our  own  labourers,  who 
come  to  the  little  chapel,  and  I  read  the  lessons 
and  Leonard's  discourses,  as  I  am  bid.  But  I 
wish  you  were  back  once  more,  with  all  my 
heart.' 

I  began  to  echo  that  wish,  and  I  found  Leonard 
was  of  the  same  mind. 

'  If  once  the  summer  comes,'  he  said,  '  we  will  re- 
turn to  the  farm,  and  I  must  look  for  some  young 
scholar  to  read  the  service  for  me,  and  it  may  be 
that  I  shall  be  able  to  use  my  voice  if  I  make  but 
little  effort.' 

I  knew  not  how  this  would  be,  for  the  physician 
who  came  to  see  me  warned  me  that  any  undue 
exertion  of  the  voice  would  bring  on  the  bleeding, 
of  which  I  had  for  some  months  lived  in  continual 
dread  lest  it  should  happen.  It  was  a  great  trial 
of  patience  for  me.  I  loved  to  be  active,  and  free 
to  come  and  go. 

Especially  did  I  long  to  get  into  the  choir  of  the 
Abbey  for  refreshing  and  comfort  when  evensong 
and  matins  were  said. 


WESTMINSTER  ABBEY  273 

But  I  was  shut  out  from  this,  one  of  my  chief 
delights,  and  I  knew  full  well  I  was  often  querulous 
and  cross-grained  to  Madge. 

Mr  and  Mrs  Purcell  now  led  a  very  busy  life. 
Mr  Purcell  was  often  commanded  to  appear  at 
Whitehall,  as  the  Queen  loved  to  hear  him  play 
and  Mrs  Hunt  sing  the  songs  which  he  had  set  to 
music. 

It  was  always  a  joy  to  me  to  see  Mr  Purcell,  and 
he  had  ever,  when  he  paid  me  a  visit,  some  kind 
and  consoling  word  ready.  It  struck  me  painfully 
on  one  occasion  that  there  was  a  look  of  increasing 
delicacy  on  his  face.  His  wide  brow  was,  so  it 
seemed  to  me,  over-weighted  with  the  constant  work 
of  the  brain,  from  which  he  gave  himself  no  rest. 
His  beautiful  eyes  were  unnaturally  bright,  and 
there  was  sometimes  a  short,  sharp  cough  as  he 
came  up  the  stairs  to  my  chamber. 

'  Let  no  one  think,  Betty,'  he  said,  on  the  occasion 
I  speak  of,  'that  the  musician's  life  is  free  from 
toil.  I  often  wonder,  when  the  versifiers  come  to 
me,  begging  me  to  write  music  for  their  rhymes, 
whether  they  know  that  I  bestow  pains,  ay,  and 
labour  too,  on  what  seem  to  many,  when  accom- 
plished, but  trifles.  It  is  a  different  matter  when  I 
write  music  for  the  Festival  of  St  Cecilia.  This  is 
floating  in  my  mind,  and  I  think  the  Te  Deum 

S 


274  IN  THE  CHOIR  OF 

Laudamus  will  be  a  fitting  strain  for  those  match- 
less words.  But  I  have  much  on  hand  ere  I  can 
produce  this.  The  commemoration  ode  for  Trinity 
College  is  finished,  and  it  is  when  my  spirit  is 
free  to  give  noble  words  a  fitting  expression  with 
music  that  I  am  happy — yes,  more  than  happy — it  is 
sometimes  like  the  bliss  which  is  not  native  to  this 
world.' 

As  Mr  Purcell  talked  thus  to  me,  I  felt  a  fore- 
boding that  the  ardour  of  the  spirit  was  too  much 
for  his  body.  I  prayed  him  to  spare  himself  and 
to  regard  health  as  the  most  precious  gift. 

'  I  pray  you  think,'  I  said,  '  of  my  husband — how 
deep  is  the  trial  of  his  state  of  forced  inaction,  due, 
I  believe,  to  the  over-straining  of  his  voice,  and  the 
fervour  with  which  he  preached  to  his  people  at 
Burton.  Due,  too,  to  long  night  watches  by  the 
sick  and  dying,  in  cold,  cheerless  cottages,  through 
which  the  wind  whistled  and  the  rain  crept  through 
the  roof.' 

'  You  can  preach  caution  well,  Betty,'  Mr  Purcell 
said,  with  one  of  his  sweet  smiles,  '  but  how  con- 
cerning yourself?  Has  not  my  wife  cautioned  you 
many  a  time  not  to  overtax  your  strength,  and  not 
to  carry  little  Frances  out  for  her  airings?  I  am 
tempted  to  say  to  you,  "Physician,  heal  thyself!"' 

*  Ah ! '  I  rejoined,  '  I  may  have  been  guilty  in  the 


WESTMINSTER  ABBEY  275 

manner  you  mention,  but  it  was  the  cruel,  cruel 
shock  of  William  Mountfort's  death  that  has  haunted 
me  ever  since.  Many  a  time  I  wake  shuddering  in 
every  limb,  and  faint  with  terror,  as  in  a  half-waking 
dream  I  rehearse  that  terrible  scene  and  hear  his 
dying  groans.' 

'  Nay,  nay,  you  do  ill  to  dwell  on  that  spectacle. 
Let  us  dismiss  it  and  speak  of  it  no  more.  It 
would  seem  you  feel  the  horror  of  it  more  acutely 
than  his  widow.  It  was  amazing  to  see  her  in  the 
part  of  Belinda  in  "  The  Old  Bachelor." ' 

'  Yes,'  I  said ;  '  my  husband  did  his  utmost  to 
dissuade  her  from  taking  the  part,  but  in  vain.' 

'  It  is  piteous  to  think  how  these  actors  must 
needs  pander  to  the  pleasure  of  the  public,  whether 
sick  or  well,  merry  or  sorrowful.  It  is  a  misery  to 
think  of  the  aching  hearts  ofttimes  hidden  under 
the  gay  outside  of  the  comic  actor,  and  of  the 
tragedies  which  are  simulated  on  the  stage,  when 
the  actor  knows  but  too  well  by  experience  what 
the  reality  is.' 

Mr  Purcell  was  here  interrupted  by  Madge's 
entrance  with  my  babe  Elizabeth  in  her  arms,  little 
Frances  clinging  to  her  gown. 

'  Madam  has  talked  too  long,  sir,'  she  said,  '  and 
Master  Perceval  craves  your  presence  for  a  few 
minutes.' 


2/6  IN  THE  CHOIR  OF 

'A  hint  that  I  am  to  take  my  departure,'  Mr 
Purcell  said.  '  I  dare  to  say  you  are  right,  Mistress 
Madge.  Adieu!  adieu!'  and  then,  kissing  his  hand 
to  me,  he  was  gone. 

'  You  look  weary,'  Madge  said ;  '  Master  Purcell 
has  stayed  too  long.' 

'  He  can  never  do  that,'  I  said ;  '  it  is  a  joy  to  me 
to  see  him.' 

'  It  won't  be  a  joy  to  me  if  you  have  a  bad  night ; 
you  will  never  be  fit  to  go  home  unless  you  husband 
what  little  strength  you  have  got.  The  children 
want  the  country  air,  and  this  babe  would  thrive 
better  at  Hertsbury  than  here.' 

'  Is  she  not  thriving  ? '  I  asked  anxiously.  '  Give 
her  to  me.' 

Little  Elizabeth  was  not  a  healthy,  robust  babe, 
like  her  sister,  and  I  felt  I  had  blinded  myself  to 
the  fact. 

I  said  nothing  then  to  Madge,  but  I  determined 
to  do  my  best  to  get  strong  enough  to  bear  that 
long  journey  in  the  stage,  to  which  I  looked  for- 
ward with  dread. 

At  last  the  longed-for  summer  came,  and  on  a 
fair  August  evening  I  found  myself,  with  my  two 
babes  and  my  husband,  at  my  old  home. 

How  sweet  and    fresh  was   the   country  air  and 


WESTMINSTER  ABBEY  277 

the  familiar  sounds  which  fell  on  my  ear ;  the 
ripple  of  the  mill  stream,  the  caw  of  the  rooks 
near  the  church,  the  lowing  of  the  cows  come  home 
for  the  milking. 

Little  Frances  was  all  alive  after  her  long  slumber 
in  the  stage,  and,  holding  her  father's  hand,  trotted 
down  the  garden  path  to  the  porch,  saying,  as  she 
looked  up  at  the  climbing  roses  which  hung  from  it, — 

'  Pretty,  pretty  fowers ! ' 

Yes,  it  was  a  sweet  home-coming,  and  my  hus- 
band gathered  the  servants,  both  outdoor  and  in- 
door, in  our  little  chapel,  and  read  part  of  the 
evening  prayer,  ending  with  the  general  thanks- 
giving. Mrs  Turner  and  our  good  Joyce,  old  Giles 
and  Rhoda,  were  almost  tearful  in  their  welcome, 
Joyce  saying  she  never  had  expected  to  see 
his  reverence  in  that  place  again  or  hear  his 
voice. 

'  But,'  she  added, '  he  must  never  try  it  by  raising 
it,  or  mischief  will  come.  And  as  to  you,  dear 
mistress,  you  and  the  babe  look  like  shadows. 
You  must  be  fed  with  milk  warm  from  the  cow, 
and  cream  to  fatten  you.' 

It  was  wonderful  to  us  to  find  how  well  the  farm 
had  prospered  in  our  absence.  The  yields  of  barley 
and  oats  and  the  fruit  of  the  orchard  had  been 
plentiful ;  the  cottagers  on  the  few  acres  of  our  land 


278  IN  THE  CHOIR  OF 

were  all  content,  and,  in  truth,  we  were  blessed  in 
our  store  by  the  goodness  of  God. 

It  was  the  more  surprising,  as  in  many  parts  of 
the  country  the  spring  had  been  marked  by  the 
severity  of  the  weather  and  the  slow  coming  of 
anything  like  summer  heat. 

Of  the  quiet  and  restful  year  which  followed  our 
return  to  Ivy  Farm  there  is  little  to  record. 

Our  household  was  increased  by  a  young  and 
godly  man  who  desired  instruction  in  Latin  and 
Greek  and  in  Divinity,  and  who  came  to  take  up 
his  abode  with  us. 

My  husband  found  it  a  pleasant  occupation  to 
have  the  training  of  this  youth's  mind,  and  forming, 
by  his  influence,  his  character. 

Eustace  Berkeley  was  no  ordinary  young  man, 
and  so  gentle  and  courteous  in  his  manner  that  he 
won  all  our  hearts.  He  read  in  our  little  chapel 
for  my  husband  the  sermons  that  he  wrote  week 
by  week  for  his  people. 

Madge  had  done  her  part,  and,  indeed,  her  con- 
duct had  been  worthy  of  all  praise.  She  had  an 
exceeding  clear,  ringing  voice,  and  she  became  an 
attraction  to  outsiders  to  frequent  the  chapel ;  so  that 
she  asked  Leonard  to  give  orders  that  only  our 
own  people  were  to  be  admitted. 

'  Master  Blankly  had  come,'  she  said,  '  in  a  fume 


WESTMINSTER  ABBEY  279 

one  day  and  asked  what  right  a  woman  could  have  to 
read  a  prayer  or  a  lesson.  Was  she  a  mad  Quakeress 
in  fine  clothing  ?  He  would  have  none  on't.'  Then 
Madge  laughingly  said,  '  I  have  never  told  you  he 
wanted  none  of  my  reading,  but  he  wanted  me  to 
nurse  his  gouty  leg.  He  did  me  the  honour  to  ask 
me  to  be  mistress  of  Burton  Rectory.  A  likely 
matter,  truly !  I  declined  the  honour  he  would 
have  done  me,  and,  by  your  leave,  Betty,  I  mean 
to  live  with  you  all  my  life.  I  have  no  desire  to 
be  tied  to  any  man.  I  like  my  own  way,  as  you 
know.' 

It  often  caused  Leonard  sorrow  of  heart  to  think 
that  he  was  deprived  of  the  suitable  performance 
of  his  duties  as  a  minister  of  Christ.  There  were 
many  besides  Mr  Blankly  who  were  ready  to  con- 
demn him  as  contumacious  and  rebellious  against 
authority  by  holding  services  in  a  conventicle. 

'Better  ask  the  old  miller  to  hold  forth,'  Mr 
Blankly  said  one  day.  '  He'll  roar  like  a  bull  of 
Bashan,  and  the  folks  will  flock  into  your  barn.1 

My  husband  referred  the  matter  to  the  deprived 
Bishop  of  Bath  and  Wells,  Dr  Ken,  whose  advice 
he  had  often  sought  before. 

He  replied  in  a  letter  full  of  godly  counsel  to 
the  effect  that,  as  an  ordained  minister  of  Christ, 
he  had  a  right  to  administer  the  Holy  Communion 


28o  IN  THE  CHOIR  OF 

on  Sundays  and  festivals  to  his  own  household, 
but  that  he  was  to  be  careful  to  give  no  occasion 
to  the  enemy  to  blaspheme ;  and  walk  circumspectly 
— giving  offence  to  none  by  using  any  undue  in- 
fluence which  might  seem  to  draw  the  parishioners 
of  Burton  from  their  church. 

As  to  the  little  church  of  Hertsbury,  it  was  now 
the  abode  of  rats  and  mice,  while  bats  flew  in  and 
out  through  the  broken  panes  of  the  east  window. 

Doubtless  the  rector  who  held  it  with  two  other 
rich  benefices  was  guilty  of  gross  neglect  But 
no  one  called  him  to  account — he  living  in  a  dis- 
tant county ;  and  though,  when  he  first  held  these 
benefices  in  my  youth,  a  curate  lived  in  a  small  cot- 
tage hard  by,  by  degrees  this  had  dropped  to  a 
visitation  thrice  in  the  year,  and  now  the  village 
was  deserted,  so  far  as  the  Church  was  concerned. 

This  holding  of  pluralities  was  a  sore  blot  on  the 
conduct  of  those  in  authority  in  the  Church.  Small 
wonder  that  Papists  and  Nonconformists,  Quakers, 
Puritans  and  the  like  came  to  districts  deserted  like 
Hertsbury,  and  gained  the  hearts  of  the  people,  who 
were  in  good  truth  as  sheep  without  a  shepherd. 

The  year  1694  was  one  of  peace  and  plenty  to  us. 

Our  children  were  a  source  of  continual  pleasure, 
and  little  Elizabeth  opened  like  a  flower  in  sun- 
shine in  her  country  home. 


WESTMINSTER  ABBEY  281 

My  husband  also  gathered  strength  in  the  atmo- 
sphere which  surrounded  him,  and  Eustace  Berkeley 
was  as  a  younger  brother  to  us. 

He  was  an  orphan  under  the  care  of  a  somewhat 
tyrannical  guardian,  and  he  was  happy  to  find  his 
home  with  us. 

During  this  year,  as  I  look  back  on  it,  I  ask 
myself  had  I  any  crosses  to  bear  or  any  troubles 
to  mar  my  bliss.  I  think  I  can  say  with  a  thankful 
heart  that  the  motto  of  this  year  may  be  written 
thus  for  me, — 

'  He  maketh  peace  in  thy  borders,  and  filleth  thee 
with  the  flour  of  wheat.' 

Towards  the  end  of  September  my  heart  was  sad 
for  my  dear  friends  in  Dean's  Yard. 

Mrs  Purcell  was  not  swift  with  her  pen,  and  her 
letters  were  few  and  short ;  but  I  could  see,  when  I 
received  one  in  the  autumn  of  this  year,  that  her 
anxieties  for  my  dear  master  were  many  and  great. 

'  He  looks  often  weary,  and  cannot  take  sufficient 
rest,'  she  said.  '  He  is  up  late,  and  often  returns  in 
the  chill  night  air  coughing  terribly.  It  is  vain  for 
me  to  entreat  him  to  be  careful  and  spare  himself. 
He  is  more  than  ever  at  the  beck  and  call  of 
rhymesters  and  playwrights,  nobles  and  great  folk, 
and  gives  himself  scarce  a  moment's  quiet  or  rest. 
My  little  Mary,  our  last  born,  is  an  ailing  child 


282  IN  THE  CHOIR  OF 

and  I  fear  we  shall  never  see  her,  like  her  sister 
and  brother,  happy  and  healthful.' 

This  letter  made  me  reply  by  begging  Mrs 
Purcell  to  bring  the  little  one  with  her,  and  let 
me  see  her  flourish  as  my  own  Elizabeth  had 
done  in  pure  air  and  with  milk  warm  from  the 
cow  for  her  morning  meal. 

Leonard  was  always  ready  to  agree  with  any 
plan  I  wished  to  carry  out,  and  he  said, — 

'The  house  is  yours,  dear  wife,  and  you  are  free 
to  fill  it  as  you  please.' 

I  never  liked  to  hear  Leonard  say  this,  and  told 
him  he  forgot  that  what  was  mine  was  his,  and 
it  hurt  me  that  he  should  speak  of  this,  and  before 
witnesses,  for  Madge  was  present,  and  was  conning 
a  page  of  Virgil  with  Eustace  Berkeley. 

Madge  could  always  turn  everything  into  a 
jest,  and  looking  up  from  her  book  she  said, — 

'  Betty  owns  nothing  but  the  harpsichord  and 
her  spinning-wheel — ah !  and  I  forgot,  her  goose 
quill.  She  would  not  care  if  the  house  were 
burnt  down  if  she  could  keep  these  her  favourite 
goods  and  chattels.' 

'And  how  concerning  the  children?'  Leonard 
asked. 

'Ah,  I  forgot  the  children.  They  are  not  goods 
and  chattels,  they  are  the  apples  of  Betty's  eyes.' 


WESTMINSTER  ABBEY  283 

'And  do  I  count  for  naught?'  Leonard  said, 
laughing. 

'To  be  sure  you  do.  She  is  bone  of  your  bone, 
and  flesh  of  your  flesh.  There  !  I  can't  say  any 
more,  or  I  shall  never  get  through  this  line.' 

'  Yes,'  I  said,  '  Madge,  you  must  say  more. 
Will  you  think  Mistress  Purcell's  and  the  ailing 
child's  presence  too  burdensome?' 

'  I ! — no.  I  do  not  love  Mistress  Purcell.  I  think 
she  spoils  her  brats,  and  being  a  spoiled  child  myself, 
I  can  pity  them.  For,'  turning  to  Eustace,  '  I  would 
have  you  know  that  I  was  the  veriest  little  vixen 
and  ill-behaved  child  that  ever  lived.' 

Eustace  laughed. 

'  What,  then,  has  made  you  a  well-behaved  young 
gentlewoman  ?  You  must  have  vastly  changed,  if 
what  you  say  is  true.' 

Madge  rose,  and  making  a  deep  curtsey,  said,  in 
a  mocking  tone,  to  Eustace, — 

'  I  give  you  humble  thanks  for  your  good  opinion 
of  me,  sir ;  and  as  to  what  has  changed  me,  I 
will  tell  you.  You  must  ask  who,  not  what,  and 
I  answer,  this  gentlewoman  who  disclaims  owner- 
ship of  this  house,  but  she  cannot  disclaim  the 
fact  that  she  has  for  her  own  the  love  and  respect 
of  everyone  in  it.  There's  a  fine  speech  for  you,' 
she  said.  '  Why,  Betty,  what  ails  you  ? '  for,  over- 


284  IN  THE  CHOIR  OF 

come  with  a  sense  of  my  unworthiness  to  hear 
these  words,  I  left  the  parlour  to  hide  my  tears. 

Madge  was  after  me  in  a  moment. 

'  It  is  true,  Betty !  it  is  true ! '  and  flinging  her  arms 
round  me  with  all  her  old,  passionate  fervour,  she 
said,  'You  make  everyone  who  lives  with  you 
love  you.' 

I  scarce  like  to  record  this,  save  to  show  that 
a  wild  nature  like  dear  Madge's  can  only  be  won 
by  love  and  tenderness.  The  rule  of  school  had 
prepared  the  way  for  the  rule  of  love,  not,  as  I 
hope,  unmixed  with  firmness,  which  I  held  over  her. 

Madge  may  never  read  what  I  have  written  here ; 
indeed,  as  I  write,  I  often  wonder  who  will  read  the 
records  of  my  life.  Most  like  they  will  be  hid  away 
in  some  bureau  or  chest,  and  lie  unheeded.  I  shall 
never  speak  of  them  or  tell  my  children  of  their 
existence.  I  should  not  care  to  have  this  history 
read  in  my  lifetime.  When  I  am  dead  those 
who  survive  me  may  chance  to  find  it,  and  what- 
soever there  may  be  in  it  which  is  approved, 
or  is  thought  dull  and  prosy,  can  then  meet 
what  it  deserves,  whether  of  praise  or  blame. 

Mrs  Purcell  and  her  child  were  welcome  in  our 
happy  household.  If  more  labour  fell  on  Madge 
and  our  good  Mrs  Turner  and  Joyce,  they  never 
murmured. 


WESTMINSTER  ABBEY  285 

And  I  confess  it  was  a  pleasure  to  me  to  sit 
with  my  spinning-wheel  while  Mrs  Purcell  gave 
me  news  of  the  great  world,  from  which  I  seemed 
now  as  far  distant  as  if  I  lived  in  the  Indies. 

Then  I  would  sit  down  to  the  harpsichord  and 
do  my  best  to  play  the  late  compositions  of  Mr 
Purcell,  copies  of  which  he  had  sent  me. 

The  Te  Deum  and  Jubilate  for  the  festival  of 
St  Cecilia  were  beyond  measure  beautiful,  and  I 
grieved  to  be  unable  to  render  them  as  they  ought 
to  have  been  rendered.  Then  there  was  the 
birthday  ode  for  the  little  Duke  of  Gloucester, 
which,  Mrs  Purcell  said,  had  won  great  praise 
from  the  Princess  Anne. 

Mrs  Purcell  had  been  several  times  commanded 
to  appear  with  her  husband  at  Whitehall,  and  had 
been  treated  with  great  condescension  by  the 
Queen  and  the  Princess  Anne. 

'There  can  be  no  question/  Mrs  Purcell  said, 
'  that  the  Queen  wins  all  hearts,  and  by  her 
sweetness  and  gentleness  atones  for  the  King's 
morose  and  sullen  temper.' 

'  I  wish,'  I  said, '  I  could  forget  that  she  was  cruel 
to  her  own  father  and  allowed  herself  to  hearken 
to  the  foolish  story  about  the  Prince  of  Wales.' 

'  I  see  you  are  a  Jacobite  to  the  backbone,'  Mrs 
Purcell  said;  'for  my  part,  I  think  you  had  done 


286  IN  THE  CHOIR  OF 

well  to  persuade  your  husband  to  take  the  oaths  of 
allegiance.' 

'  How  could  I  persuade  him  to  do  what  I  myself 
know  to  be  wrong  ? '  I  said. 

And  then  we  passed  from  any  subject  of  dispute 
to  speak  of  our  children,  Mrs  Purcell  complaining 
somewhat  of  her  Edward's  rebellious  temper  one 
moment,  and  the  next  saying  he  was  a  prodigy  as 
to  music,  and,  his  father  said,  would  excel  him.  Then 
there  was  not  a  child  to  compare  with  her  Frances 
for  beauty  and  wit,  and  if  it  were  not  for  the  grand- 
mother's ill  management  of  her,  she  would  have 
been  as  good  as  she  was  lovely.  Little  Mary  was 
daily  growing  stronger,  and  it  was  a  pretty  sight  to 
watch  our  Frances  playing  with  her  and  patiently 
bearing  the  fretful  pining  which  is  ever  the  sign  of 
a  child's  want  of  health. 

Sometimes,  when  I  heard  Mrs  Purcell  extolling 
her  children,  I  wondered  if  I  erred  in  the  same  way, 
for,  after  all  is  said,  praising  one's  children  is  prais- 
ing oneself. 

Yet  dearly  as  Leonard  and  I  loved  our  little 
daughters,  I  do  not  think  we  over-indulged  them, 
but  did  our  best  to  train  them  in  the  ways  of 
obedience  and  truth,  without  the  rod,  which  is  a 
favourite  punishment  with  many  parents. 

Much  that  Mrs  Purcell  said  of  Susanna  Mount- 


WESTMINSTER  ABBEY  287 

fort  gave  Leonard  uneasiness.  She  was  so  bound 
up  with  the  life  of  the  stage  that  the  loss  of  her 
noble  husband  was  apparently  forgotten.  I  would 
say  apparently,  for  which  of  us  can  find  out  the 
spirit  of  others  or  gauge  their  feelings,  whether  of 
joy  or  sorrow? 

I  liked  almost  less  to  hear  of  the  warmth  of 
friendship  between  Mrs  Bracegirdle  and  young  Mr 
Congreve. 

'Every  play  he  writes,'  Mrs  Purcell  said,  'has  a 
character  made  expressly  for  her.  Doubtless,  Ara- 
minta,  in  "  The  Old  Bachelor,"  made  Mistress  Brace- 
girdle  famous,  or  rather  increased  her  fame.  Now 
the  Queen's  liking  for  "The  Double  Dealer,"  and 
admiration  of  Cynthia,  has  brought  Mistress  Brace- 
girdle  royal  favour,  and  she  is  more  run  after  than 
ever.  There  are  sharp  tongues  which  are  busy 
about  her  friendship  with  Master  Congreve,  but  there 
have  always  been  folk  jealous  of  her,  who  have  done 
their  best  to  defame  her  character. 

As  we  spoke  of  these  matters,  we  little  imagined 
how  soon  the  theatres  would  be  closed  and  the 
whole  kingdom  plunged  in  mourning. 

Mrs  Purcell  and  her  babe  departed  under  care 
of  Eustace  Berkeley,  who  was  summoned  to  an  in- 
terview with  his  guardian  towards  the  middle  of 
November. 


288  IN  THE  CHOIR  OF 

He  brought  back  bad  news  of  the  vast  increase 
of  the  smallpox,  and  the  terror  it  caused  in  all 
parts  of  London.  Having  a  lively  remembrance 
of  the  fearful  condition  of  poor  Adelicia's  face,  I 
could  scarce  be  surprised  that  there  was  a  panic 
amongst  the  gentlewomen  at  Court  lest  it  should 
reach  Kensington  Palace,  where  the  Queen  was  now 
residing. 

One  dark  night  there  was  the  sound  of  horses' 
feet  and  a  loud  knocking  at  the  door,  and  to  the 
question  called  out  by  old  Giles,  '  Who  goes  there  ? ' 
we  heard  Edmund  Pelham's  voice  shouting  his  own 
name  in  loud  tones. 

He  came  into  the  house  drenched  with  rain  and 
shivering  in  every  limb.  Leonard  went  to  him,  and 
found  him  in  abject  terror  lest  he  had  caught  the 
dreaded  malady. 

Leonard  spoke  sharply  to  him,  and  bid  him  re- 
member that  fear  was  the  sure  road  to  catch  the 
disease.  And  so  it  proved.  The  hurried  ride  from 
London  in  the  rain  brought  on  what  was  maybe 
lying  dormant  in  him. 

Leonard,  although  far  above  any  weak  fears  for 
himself,  remembered  the  danger  to  his  household, 
and  more  especially  to  me  and  to  our  children.  He 
was  sorely  perplexed  what  to  do. 

It  was  hard  not  to  feel  contempt  for  a  man  who 


WESTMINSTER  ABBEY  289 

stricken  with  the  fear  of  contagion  for  himself,  could 
come  to  risk  developing  the  dread  disease  in  the 
house  of  a  friend. 

Eustace  and  my  husband  took  counsel  together, 
and  decided  that  though  Edmund  could  not  be  re- 
fused the  night's  shelter,  he  could  not  be  suffered 
to  remain  under  our  roof. 

The  difficulty  was  solved  the  next  day  by  the 
readiness  of  the  old  miller  Joe  to  serve  us.  When 
Eustace  told  him  of  our  dilemma  he  said  he  had 
neither  chick  nor  child,  and  his  old  serving-maid 
had,  like  himself,  gone  through  the  disease  years 
before. 

Now  Edmund  showed  his  selfish  disregard  of 
others'  welfare  by  making  objections  to  being  sent 
to  the  mill. 

But  Madge  delivered  herself  to  so  much  purpose, 
and  without  any  reserve,  to  Edmund,  that  he  con- 
sented to  remove  to  the  mill,  taking  his  servant 
with  him,  and  leaving  his  horses  stabled  with  ours, 

His  fears  that  he  had  caught  the  smallpox  were 
but  too  well  founded.  Within  a  week  he  was  laid 
in  the  grave  by  his  wife ;  thus  closed  the  sad  story 
of  two  lives  which  had  opened  with  fair  promise, 
blighted  by  the  breath  of  the  world  and  sinful  dis- 
regard of  all  that  was  pure  and  of  good  report. 

By   God's   mercy  there   was   no   other  victim   in 


290  IN  THE  CHOIR  OF 

Hertsbury  and  Burton,  and  the  kindness  of  old  Joe, 
and  his  readiness  to  help  us  in  our  time  of  need, 
showed  us,  if  we  needed  a  proof,  that  Christian 
faith  and  practice  are  not  tied  to  any  precise  form. 

Deeply  attached  as  we  were  to  the  Church  in  which 
my  husband  was  a  minister,  we,  from  this  time,  may 
be,  could  look  with  kindlier  eye  on  those  who  had 
separated  from  her.  Verily,  God  is  no  respecter  of 
persons. 

Only  those  who  can  recall  the  Christmastide  of 
this  year,  and  but  few  are  now  left,  can  believe  the 
shock  of  sorrow  and  distress  which  the  death  of  the 
Queen  caused  throughout  the  kingdom.  She  was 
beloved  in  life,  but  she  was  even  more  beloved  in 
her  death. 

Her  heroic  conduct  when  she  found  herself 
stricken  with  this  dreaded  scourge  was  seen  by 
her  command  that  all  her  attendants  and  ladies 
should  leave  Kensington  Palace  who  had  not 
suffered  from  smallpox.  Thus  but  few  remained. 
But  now,  as  is  often  seen,  the  husband,  who  had 
to  all  seeming  been  cold  and  even  faithless  to  his  wife, 
was  overcome  with  a  mighty  grief,  terrible  to  witness. 

In  vain  the  Queen  besought  him  to  leave  her. 
He  would  not  do  so.  He  had  his  little  pallet  bed 
brought  to  her  chamber,  and  there  he  lay  to  watch 
and  hope  against  hope. 


WESTMINSTER  ABBEY  291 

So  bitter  was  his  grief  when  at  last,  on  the  29th 
day  of  December,  the  Queen  died,  that  the  physician 
feared  for  the  result.  Of  him  it  might  indeed  be 
said  his  soul  refused  comfort. 

Great  preparations  were  made  for  the  funeral, 
which  was  to  exceed  in  show  and  pomp  any  that 
had  preceded  it  since  the  funeral  of  that  great 
knight  who  fell  after  the  fight  at  Zutphen — Sir 
Philip  Sidney. 

The  burial  was  long  delayed,  and  it  was  considered 
by  many  a  great  risk  to  the  lives  of  survivors,  but 
every  precaution  was  taken,  and  no  evil  consequences 
ensued. 

We  heard  tidings  of  the  conduct  of  many  of  the 
Jacobite  clergymen,  which  was  painful  to  Leonard. 
Although  a  Non-Juror  for  conscience'  sake,  none 
deplored  the  early  death  of  the  Queen  more  sin- 
cerely, and  he  reproved  Eustace  with  some  severity 
one  day  when  he  spoke  of  a  righteous  judgment 
falling  on  all  undutiful  daughters. 

Madge,  always  quick  to  take  up  an  argument,  now 
said, — 

'  I  don't  put  faith  in  judgments,  for  I  am  a  living 
instance  that  they  don't  fall  on  the  right  head.  Ask 
Betty  whether  I  was  a  dutiful  daughter.  She  knows 
I  was  not,  and  no  judgment  has  fallen  on  me,  for 
here  I  am,  as  happy  and  prosperous  as  heart  could 


292      IN  THE  CHOIR  OF  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY 

wish,  No,  no;  judgments  do  not  always  follow  un- 
dutiful  behaviour.' 

Eustace  laughed,  saying, — 

'  You  are  very  prone  to  hit  yourself  with  sharp 
arrows,  while  you  rise  up  in  wrath  if  anyone  dare 
so  much  as  to  point  one  at  you.' 

This  was  true,  and  true  of  us  all.  It  is  easy  to 
confess  faults,  sometimes,  as  I  have  known,  in  the 
expectation  that  those  to  whom  we  are  speaking 
will  deny  the  justice  of  our  self-condemnation. 
There  is  too  often  a  want  of  sincerity  in  these  ap- 
peals to  others  concerning  our  particular  faults  and 
shortcomings.  Thus,  when  Madge  said, '  Ask  Betty 
if  I  were  a  dutiful  daughter,'  I  shook  my  head,  and, 
in  a  voice  which  reached  her  ear,  if  not  Eustace 
Berkeley's,  I  answered  her  question  with  '  No.' 


BOOK    VII 

1695 

Music  to  hear,  why  hear*st  thou  music  sadly  ? 

Sweets  with  sweets  war  not,  joy  delights  in  joy. 
Why  lov'st  thou  that  which  thou  receiv'st  not  gladly  ? 

Or  else  receiv'st  with  pleasure  thine  annoy  ? 

Mark,  how  one  string,  sweet  husband  to  another, 
Strikes  each  in  each,  by  mutual  ordering. 

Resembling  sire  and  child  and  happy  mother, 
Who  all  in  one,  one  pleasing  note  do  sing. 

SHAKESPEARE,  Sonnets  (vin). 


CHAPTER    XIII 

A.D.     1695 

IT  was  on  the  5th  day  of  March  of  this  year  that 
Queen  Mary  was  buried. 

We  heard  from  Eustace  Berkeley — who,  with  the 
curiosity  of  youth  and  love  of  a  grand  spectacle, 
had  been  present  in  the  Abbey — the  account  of 
an  eye-witness  of  the  great  ceremony.  The  chief 
interest  for  me  centred  in  hearing  that  the  anthems 
composed  for  the  occasion  by  Mr  Purcell  were 
considered  the  finest  he  had  ever  written. 

Even  Eustace,  who  was  not  very  easily  moved 
by  music,  said  that  when  the  words ,  '  Thou 
knowest,  Lord,  the  secrets  of  our  hearts;  shut  not 
Thy  merciful  ears  to  our  prayer,'  were  sung,  he 
felt  tears  raining  down  his  face,  and  that  almost 
everyone  was  weeping. 

Such  music  for  a  funeral,  he  said,  was  never  heard 
before.  The  rest  of  the  mournful  pageant  only 

295 


296  IN  THE  CHOIR  OF 

made  me  think,  as  Eustace  described  it,  how  a 
simple  burial,  without  all  this  pomp  and  show, 
is  far  more  in  accord  with  the  feelings  of  sorrow 
in  the  hearts  of  those  who  are  bereaved. 

The  waxen  effigy  of  the  poor  Queen,  dressed 
in  all  her  grand  attire  of  velvet  and  jewels,  placed 
outside  her  coffin,  filled  me  with  distress,  yet 
Eustace  said  there  had  been  a  vast  throng  of 
people  of  all  kinds  and  degrees  who  pressed  to 
get  a  view  of  this  figure  as  Queen  Mary  lay  in 
state.  Moreover,  that  the  King  had  ordered  the 
figure  to  be  executed,  and  seemed  to  consider  it 
one  of  the  chief  honours  which  he  desired  to  heap 
on  the  memory  of  his  dead  wife. 

In  answer  to  my  inquiry  concerning  Mr  Purcell, 
Eustace  said  he  had  scarce  seen  him. 

He  had,  in  obedience  to  my  wish,  been  to 
Dean's  Yard,  and  old  Mrs  Purcell  spoke  of  her  son 
as  very  much  troubled  with  a  cough,  and  said  that 
he  would  not  spare  himself,  and  what  with  his  work 
for  the  Abbey  and  the  Chapel  Royal,  and  the  many 
compositions  on  which  he  was  engaged,  and  the 
grand  people  who  were  constantly  sending  for 
him,  she  was  certain  he  was  wearing  himself  to 
death, 

I  knew  that  his  mother  always  took  the  worst 
view  of  the  dear  master's  health,  and  was  prone 


WESTMINSTER  ABBEY  297 

to  look  on  the  dark  side  of  most  people  and  things, 
as  is  common  with  the  aged,  and  from  which  I 
pray  for  the  sake  of  others  to  be  preserved. 

Yet  I  was  filled  with  uneasiness  about  my 
dear  master,  for  whom  time  and  absence  had  not 
chilled  my  affection  or  the  admiration  I  had  ever 
felt  for  him  and  his  marvellous  genius. 

I  had  a  longing  to  go  to  London  to  see  for 
myself  the  condition  of  my  best  friend,  for  such 
I  must  ever  consider  Mr  Purcell  to  be. 

But  the  birth  of  our  little  son  in  March,  who 
came  to  crown  the  happiness  of  our  home,  pre- 
vented me  from  fulfilling  this  desire  for  some  months. 
Moreover,  our  harvest  this  year  was  very  scanty, 
and  it  may  be  said  that  the  month  of  August  was 
one  of  extraordinary  severity.  Frosts  at  night 
were  very  severe,  and  then  torrents  of  cold  rain. 

This  inclement  weather  affected  Leonard's  health, 
and  he  was  mostly  confined  to  the  house,  and  yet 
he  never  murmured  or  was  cross-grained.  He  was 
cheerful  and  happy  with  his  books,  his  writing, 
and,  above  all,  with  his  children. 

Little  Frances  was  an  exceeding  clever  child, 
and  knew  her  horn  book  before  she  was  five.  She 
had  also  a  wonderful  memory,  and  could  recite 
long  passages  from  the  Scriptures  at  her  father's 
bidding. 


298  IN  THE  CHOIR  OF 

She  had  also  a  gift  for  mimicry,  and  when  she 
recited  she  had  graceful  actions  with  her  little 
hands. 

'  Born  to  be  an  actress,'  Mrs  Draper,  a  neighbour, 
said  one  day  when  the  child  had  recited  a  verse 
of  Mr  Milton's  Christmas  hymn  in  her  presence. 

'  God  forbid  ! '  I  exclaimed. 

'  Well-a-day,  Mistress  Perceval,'  was  the  re- 
joinder. 'The  child  must  needs  have  inherited 
her  gifts  from  her  grandfather,  Master  Perceval,  and 
her  aunt,  Mistress  Mountfort.' 

'  Mistress  Mountfort  is  not  Frances's  aunt,'  I  re- 
plied, with  some  heat ;  '  Susanna  is  my  husband's 
cousin.  They  were  brought  up  together,  and  hence 
the  mistake  which  is  often  made.' 

'Well,  for  my  part,'  my  neighbour,  Mrs  Draper, 
exclaimed,  'had  I  a  daughter,  I  should  be  proud 
to  see  her  courted  and  admired,  like  Mistress 
Bracegirdle,  but  many  folks  say  you  are  a  Puritan 
at  heart,  Mistress  Perceval.' 

Mrs  Draper  was  a  busybody,  and  too  ready  to 
pry  into  matters  that  did  not  concern  her,  and 
to  give  her  opinion  unsought.  But  her  words 
filled  me  with  anxiety,  and  I  did  not  suffer  my 
Frances  to  recite  before  witnesses  for  some  time 
in  consequence. 

As  I  had  often  thought  likely,  Eustace  Berkeley 


WESTMINSTER  ABBEY  299 

became  the  lover  of  Madge.  She,  on  her  part, 
was  often  sharper  with  her  tongue  to  him  than 
I  thought  seemly,  nor  could  I  be  sure  whether 
she  favoured  his  suit  or  not. 

My  husband  spoke  sincerely  to  Eustace,  and 
said  he  could  not  suffer  him  to  proceed  with  his 
suit  without  informing  his  guardian.  Eustace  was 
to  come  in  for  a  fortune  when  he  reached  twenty- 
one,  and  Madge  was,  save  for  what  we  could 
do  for  her,  penniless. 

This  determination  of  Leonard's,  that  Eustace 
should  see  his  guardian,  brought  matters  to  a 
point. 

I  did  my  best  to  find  out  what  Madge  really 
felt,  and  after  much  fencing  and  attempts  at  pre- 
tending she  was  indifferent  to  Eustace,  I  was 
angry  with  Madge,  and  said  I  would  have  no 
more  coquetting  and  folly,  smiling  one  moment 
and  frowning  the  next  Madge  only  laughed, 
and  said  everyone  had  not  a  soft  heart  like  mine, 
nor  a  sweet  temper  neither.  She  did  not  think 
she  would  ever  wed,  and  if  I  was  sick  of  her 
she  would  go  and  earn  her  bread  in  the  world. 

Then,  seeing  I  was  much  displeased  and  even 
tearful  at  her  words,  Madge  threw  herself,  in 
her  old,  passionate  way,  on  the  floor  by  my  side, 
saying,  with  sobs,  that  she  loved  me  and  the 


300  IN  THE  CHOIR  OF 

children,  and  would  die  for  us  if  needs  must, 
but  she  did  not  wish  Eustace  to  bind  himself  to 
her,  who  had  no  fortune,  while  he  might  pick  and 
choose  some  fine  lady  who  would  bring  him  some- 
thing beside  her  face  and  a  quick  temper  and  a 
strong  will. 

After  much  consultation  and  thought,  Leonard 
and  I  decided  that  Eustace  should  leave  Ivy 
Farm  for  a  time  at  least,  and  that  his  guardian 
should  be  informed  that  it  would  be  of  use  to 
him  to  travel  and  see  the  world  before  presenting 
himself  for  Holy  Orders,  which  was  his  greatest 
desire. 

It  was  just  after  we  had  come  to  this  de- 
cision that  I  had  a  few  words  from  Mrs  Purcell 
which  filled  me  with  sorrow.  She  begged  me 
to  go  to  her  —  for  Mr  Purcell  was  very  ill,  and 
he  craved  for  my  presence. 

I  scarce  knew  how  to  ask  Leonard  to  let  me 
go,  and  when  he  saw  me  weeping  he  said, — 

'What   ails  you,   sweetheart?' 

I  gave  him  Mrs  Purcell's  letter,  and  he  said, — 

'Well,  here  is  a  chance  of  Eustace's  safe  con- 
duct; you  shall  go  to  your  poor  friend.' 

'  Oh ! '  I  said,  '  it  is  hard  to  leave  you  and  the 
babes.  I  am  in  a  great  strait.  I  know  not 
whether  to  go  or  stay.' 


WESTMINSTER  ABBEY  301 

'  I  will  settle  this  matter  for  you,  Betty ;  you 
shall  go  to  comfort  one  who  was  a  friend  to 
you  when  you  were  in  need  of  one ;  and  as  to 
the  babes,  what  with  our  good  Joyce  and  Madge, 
they  will  be  well  cared  for.' 

So  it  was  settled,  and  on  the  All  Saints' 
Festival  I  set  forth  once  more  in  the  stage  for 
London.  To  leave  all  I  loved  so  well  was  hard, 
but  more  especially  my  little  son,  who,  though 
a  well-favoured  and  healthy  boy,  was  more  like 
my  delicate  Elizabeth  than  Frances. 

'  I'll  tend  baby  brother,'  Frances  said  when  she 
clung  to  my  neck.  '  I'll  be  a  good  girl.  Do  not 
weep,  mother.' 

Dear  child !  how  she  strove  to  smile  at  me 
through  her  tears  as  I  left  the  porch.  My  baby 
Henry,  cooing  and  crowing  in  Madge's  arms  all 
unconscious  of  my  departure,  and  Elizabeth  intent 
on  eating  a  sweet  cake  Joan  had  given  her,  I 
noticed  as  I  looked  back  that  Madge  had  hidden 
her  face  in  my  little  babe's  neck  after  waving 
her  good-bye,  and  saying  in  a  choked  voice, 
'  Bon  voyage}  to  Eustace.  He,  poor  fellow  was 
trying  to  put  a  good  face  on  the  separation,  but 
his  woe-begone  aspect  made  me  say, — 

'You  must  take  heart,  Eustace,  and  let  us  look 
for  a  happy  return  and  meeting  with  those  we  love.' 


302  IN  THE  CHOIR  OF 

'  If  only  I  was  sure  that  she  cared  for  me.' 

I  do  not  know  whether  it  was  well  said,  but  I 
replied, — 

'  I  think  she  does  care  for  you.  Did  you  not  see 
her  tears  at  parting?' 

'Tears  at  your  loss,'  he  said  gloomily,  'not  for  mine.' 

I  could  not  say  more;  my  own  heart  was  heavy 
with  the  grief  of  parting  from  Leonard.  I  would 
not  suffer  him  to  come  forth  in  the  chill  air  of 
early  morning  to  see  me  off  to  the  stage.  We 
said  our  farewells  in  our  little  chapel  where 
prayer  was  wont  to  be  made. 

Once  more  in  Dean's  Yard,  after  an  absence  of 
two  years  !  It  was  too  dark  to  see  the  Abbey  walls, 
and  there  was  a  clinging  mist  which  hid  all  but 
near  objects  from  sight. 

But  presently  the  familiar  chime  of  the  Abbey 
clock  struck  on  my  ear  like  the  voice  of  welcome, 
and  brought  to  me  the  old  message  of  peace. 

Eustace  left  me  at  the  door,  which  was  quickly 
opened  in  answer  to  our  knock.  In  the  entrance, 
under  the  lamp,  I  saw  Edward  and  Frances,  who 
ran  out  to  meet  me,  crying  out, — 

'  Aunt  Bet  is  come !     Aunt  Bet  is  come ! ' 

To  my  amazement,  Mr  PurcelFs  voice  sounded 
from  the  parlour. 

'  Come  in,  come  in,  Betty ! ' 


WESTMINSTER  ABBEY  303 

I  hastened  to  my  dear  master,  and  saw  him 
leaning  back  in  his  chair,  a  table  before  him,  on 
which  were  sheets  of  music. 

'  Ah !  Betty.  I  am  in  Rosie  Bowers,  despite  the 
fact  that  it  is  November  and  all  roses  are  dead,' 
he  said  with  a  smile.  '  But  I  get  tired  even  of 
Rosie  Bowers.  Mayhap  it  is  my  swan's  song.  Run, 
children,  run  and  summon  your  mother;  say  our 
dear  Betty  is  here.' 

The  children  scampered  off  to  do  their  father's 
bidding,  and  Mr  Purcell  held  out  his  hand  to  me. 
It  was  white  and  thin,  and  as  I  pressed  it  to 
my  lips  I  felt  it  was  burning  hot. 

'  It  was  selfish  to  bring  you  here,  Betty,  yet  I 
confess  I  wished  to  see  you  once  more — once  more. 
I  do  my  best  to  seem  better  for  my  wife's  sake,  but 
I  know  well  enough  that  I  lose  strength  daily.  Yet 
I  live  in  a  fair  dreamland  of  sweet  melodies  and  I 
have  naught  to  complain  of,  though,'  he  said,  with 
a  far-away,  wistful  look  in  his  beautiful  eyes,  '  I 
have  achieved  so  little — and  life  is  short,  too  short. 
I  could  have  done  more — and  done  better — but 
God's  will  be  my  will.' 

'You  have  achieved  so  much,'  I  said,  'my  dear 
master.  Think  how  your  music  will  sound  on  and 
on,  and  win  the  love  of  hundreds  and  thousands 
in  the  time  to  come.' 


304  IN  THE  CHOIR  OF 

Mr  Purcell's  eyes  lighted  with  joy  as  I  said  this. 

'  That  is  a  good  thought,  Betty ;  thank  you  for 
it' 

Mrs  Purcell  now  came  in  with  little  Mary  in 
her  arms,  and  as  I  took  the  child  from  her  she 
kissed  me  lovingly. 

'  Welcome,  Betty,  welcome ! '  and  then  she  seemed 
like  to  break  down  into  weeping.  So  I  said, — 

'Show  me  to  my  chamber,  for  I  would  fain  lay 
aside  my  warm  cloak  and  make  my  hair  smooth.' 

I  tried  to  speak  lightly,  and  it  was  not  till  we 
were  together  in  the  bed-chamber  that  Mrs  Purcell 
said,  throwing  herself  on  my  neek, — 

'  He  is  dying,  Betty,  he  is  dying ;  he  knows  it, 
for  he  desires  to  make  his  will  and  is  saying  fare- 
well to  the  world.  Sometimes,'  she  said  with  a 
sudden  change  of  mood — '  sometimes  I  think  he  is 
better,  and  then  my  hope  is  kindled,  and  again 
my  heart  sinks  when  I  hear  his  cough — often  all 
night,  nor  ceasing  till  the  dawn.  'To  think  of  his 
children  fatherless  and  of  myself  a  widow !  Betty, 
it  is  like  to  kill  me  with  grief;  but  your  husband 
has  got  well,  and  Henry  may  yet  live.' 

'  Not  well,'  I  said.  '  Leonard  is  not  well ;  but 
with  care  I  may  hope  to  keep  him  for  many 
years.' 

'  Ah !  with  care,'  Mrs  Purcell  said  ;  '  but  how  can  I 


WESTMINSTER  ABBEY  305 

take  the  care  I  would  of  Henry  ?  He  will  have  the 
music-sheets  before  him — he  will  see  the  choristers, 
and  hear  them  rehearse.  Even  now  he  has  written 
a  song  which,  when  I  heard  it  played  by  Mr 
D'Urfey,  I  could  well  believe  nothing  could  excel 
for  beauty  and  grace.' 

It  seemed,  and  indeed  it  was,  a  consolation  to 
Mrs  Purcell  to  talk  thus  to  me — to  tell  of  all  her 
alternate  hopes  and  fears,  and  I  was,  I  love  to 
think,  a  presence  in  the  house  which  was  welcome 
to  my  dear  master. 

Many  came  and  went  in  these  last  days  of  Mr 
Purcell's  life — the  great  and  the  noble;  those  who 
had  listened  to  his  music ;  those  who  loved  him 
as  a  friend.  The  stream  of  sympathy  flowed  un- 
ceasingly toward  him,  and  though  he  grew  daily 
weaker,  and  could  not  see  any  but  Mr  Gostling 
and  a  few  chosen  friends,  he  liked  to  know  that 
he  was  remembered  by  the  hundreds  who  came 
to  the  door  to  ask  how  it  fared  with  him. 

It  fell  to  me  to  see  many  who  came  to  the 
house  and  answer  questions  which  Mr  Purcell's 
aged  mother  could  not  find  courage  to  answer. 

The  Dean  and  prebendaries;  the  theatrical  folk, 
and  amongst  them  Mr  Congreve,  Susanna  Mount- 
fort  and  her  father,  were  frequently  at  the  door. 

Not  Mrs  Bracegirdle.  I  sometimes  wondered  at 
U 


306  IN  THE  CHOIR  OF 

her  absence,  and  I  felt  certain  it  was  not  from 
lack  of  feeling.  I  learned  afterwards  that  she  was 
greatly  troubled  at  this  time  about  the  intimacy 
existing  between  her  and  Mr  Congreve,  and  that 
my  dear  master  had  bid  her  be  careful  not  to  give 
a  colour  to  the  scandalmongers,  hovering  like  evil 
birds  ready  for  their  prey.  Mr  Congreve  had 
made  Mrs  Bracegirdle  his  idol — so  much  I  knew — 
nor  do  I  greatly  care  to  know  precisely  what  their 
relations  were;  and  thus  I  leave  that  beautiful 
woman,  who,  in  the  first  enthusiasm  of  youth,  I 
well-nigh  worshipped,  and  of  whose  purity  and 
deeds  of  blessed  charity  to  the  sick,  the  sinful  and 
the  sad,  there  could  then  be  no  shadow  of  doubt. 

The  twenty-first  day  of  November,  the  eve  of  the 
festival  of  St  Cecilia,  dawned  in  gloom. 

Mr  Purcell  did  not  attempt  to  take  his  pen  in 
hand,  or  raise  himself  from  his  couch. 

At  his  request  a  lawyer  was  called  in,  and  wrote 
from  his  lips  his  last  will  and  testament.  It  was 
duly  signed  in  the  presence  of  two  witnesses,  and 
was  a  last  act  to  show  his  perfect  confidence  in, 
and  love  for,  his  wife,  for  he  left  her  sole  executrix, 
giving  and  bequeathing  to  her  all  he  possessed. 

This  done,  there  fell  a  stillness  over  the  house. 
The  children  were  awestruck,  and,  at  their  father's 
request,  were  in  his  chamber  as  the  end  drew  on. 


WESTMINSTER  ABBEY  307 

The  bell  for  evensong  sounded,  and  Mr  Purcell's 
face  shone  with  a  strange  light  as  he  said, — 

1  This  is  the  eve  of  St  Cecilia.  How  I  have  loved 
that  day ! ' 

He  was  in  the  full  possession  of  his  faculties  to 
the  last. 

In  the  silence  of  all  around  we  could  catch  the 
faint  roll  of  the  organ  in  the  Abbey,  never  again 
to  answer  to  the  touch  of  the  master's  hand. 

I  am  sure  he  heard  it,  for  presently  he  raised 
his  hand  and  said, — 

'  Hearken  !  Those  are  the  words  of  the  Psalm — 
the  last  words,  "  Blessed  be  the  Lord  God  of  Israel." 
Yes,  yes,  "  let  all  the  people  say  amen."  Say  amen, 
sweet  wife.  Say  amen,  dear  mother.' 

There  was  no  sound  of  weeping.  How  could 
we  disturb  the  peace  of  the  dying  with  wail  of 
earthly  sorrow? 

'  Amen,  amen,'  came  in  clear  tones  from  the  lips 
he  loved  best  in  the  world,  and  little  Edward  and 
Frances  said  'amen.' 

He  did  not  speak  again,  and  as  the  last  faint 
murmur  of  the  organ  died  away,  the  spirit  of  the 
master  had  passed  hence,  where  the  music  of  the 
heavenly  choirs  greeted  him  who  had  filled  earth 
with  the  melodies  which  are  as  a  link  between 
this  world  and  another. 


308  IN  THE  CHOIR  OF 

It  were  vain  for  me  to  put  down  in  words  the 
effect  upon  the  vast  crowd  gathered  together  in 
the  Abbey  on  the  twenty-sixth  day  of  November, 
when  Mr  Purcell  was  buried  under  the  organ 
which  now  sent  forth  the  music  of  the  anthems 
written  but  a  few  short  months  ago  for  the  funeral 
of  the  Queen,  and  now  sung  over  the  grave  of 
him  who  had  composed  them. 

The  wintry  sun  came  aslant  across  the  nave, 
piercing  the  mist  which  had  filled  the  Abbey,  and 
as  the  procession  passed  along  a  ray  of  light  illu- 
mined the  coffin  ere  it  was  lowered  out  of  sight 

The  words  of  the  anthem,  '  Thou  knowest,  Lord, 
the  secrets  of  our  hearts,'  were  accompanied  by  low, 
mournful,  yet  majestic  sounds  of  trumpets. 

Every  head  in  that  vast  throng  was  bowed 
with  sorrow,  every  heart  thrilled  with  grief,  as  it 
was  remembered  that  never  again  would  the 
master's  hand  touch  the  keys  of  the  organ,  and 
that  the  place  of  one  so  well  loved  and  honoured 
would  know  him  no  more. 

There  never  was  a  moment  in  my  life  such  as 
this. 

Stirred  by  the  heavenly  strain,  my  spirit,  too 
often  earth-bound,  seemed  to  rise  to  those  blessed 
realms  where  songs  of  praise  had  no  note  of  earthly 
sadness  to  mar  their  beauty. 


WESTMINSTER  ABBEY  309 

Uplifted  by  the  majestic  music  as  it  soared 
above  me  to  the  vaulted  roof  of  the  Abbey,  I  was 
fain  to  realise  the  bliss  of  him  who  was  free  from 
the  burden  of  the  flesh  and  was  filled  with  the 
harmonies  of  celestial  music  in  the  presence  of 
God. 

As  we  passed  through  the  cloister  to  the  house 
left  desolate  in  Dean's  Yard,  I  caught  sight  of  a 
face  on  which  was  written  sorrow,  and  a  wistful 
look  as  of  one  who  was  weary  of  the  world  and 
longed  for  rest. 

Beautiful  exceedingly  was  the  face,  but  what  1 
read  there  in  a  passing  glance  haunted  me,  ay, 
and  haunts  me  still. 

It  was  the  last  time  I  ever  looked  on  Anne 
Bracegirdle. 

I  stayed  in  Dean's  Yard  to  be  of  what  comfort 
I  could  to  my  dear  master's  widow  and  children, 
and  his  aged  mother,  who  was  borne  down  with 
her  grief. 

Mrs  Purcell  had  a  brave  if  sore  heart;  she  roused 
herself  from  unavailing  laments,  and  set  herself  to 
do  all  that  was  possible  to  honour  her  husband's 
memory. 

She  set  about  collecting  Mr  Purcell's  composi- 
tions, and  pleased  herself  by  writing  dedications 


3io  IN  THE  CHOIR  OF 

to  the  works  which  were  full  of  the  devoted 
affection  she  bore  him  as  his  wife  and  admiration 
for  his  great  gifts, 

These  works  were  published  in  the  year  which 
followed,  and  were  received  with  enthusiasm  by 
the  musicians  who  maybe  had  never  fully  known 
what  a  genius  they  had  amongst  them  till  they 
lost  him.  He  was  only  thirty-seven  when  he  died. 

Christmastide  found  me  once  more  in  my  own 
home,  where  I  was  gladdened  by  the  sweet  wel- 
come awaiting  me  there,  and  I  never  before  gave 
thanks,  as  I  did  the  day  of  my  return,  for  the 
blessings  of  my  home.  Maybe  this  was  by  reason 
of  the  contrast  afforded  by  the  desolation  of  that 
other  home  I  had  just  quitted,  and  the  happiness 
of  that  to  which  I  had  come. 

As  I  look  back  on  the  years  which  have  passed 
since  that  Christmastide,  I  do  not  see  in  them 
much  to  record,  for  the  calm  and  peaceful  life  of 
home  does  not  afford  any  startling  events,  and  an 
old  woman  is  apt  to  get  prosy  and  to  put  undue 
importance  on  the  details  of  past  days. 

I  may  take  up  my  quill  again,  but  I  scarce 
think  I  shall  do  so,  and  I  am  very  sure  I  shall 
have  naught  to  tell  of  anyone  I  may  have  seen 
and  known  in  later  years  who  can  compare  with 


WESTMINSTER  ABBEY  311 

him  whom  I  still  love  to  think  of  as  my  dear 
master — who,  from  the  day  when  good  Mr  Gostling 
took  me  to  his  house  to  the  day  when  he  passed 
hence,  was  my  dear  and  honoured  friend.  His 
memory  does  not  fade,  his  music  lives,  and  one 
of  the  dear  delights  of  my  old  age  is  to  hear  it, 
as  my  grandchild,  Frances,  with  her  gift  of  song, 
makes  the  old  parlour  ring  with  some  of  the 
strains  which  are  to  me  as  a  message  from  past 
years  and  the  voice  of  the  great  musician,  Henry 
Purcell. 


NOTE 

BY  ELIZABETH  PERCEVAL'S  GRAND-DAUGHTER, 
FRANCES  MELVILLE 

THE  history  of  my  dear  grandmother,  Elizabeth 
Perceval,  has  been  gathered  together  and  arranged 
by  me,  the  daughter  of  her  much  -  loved  child, 
Frances,  who,  dying  at  my  birth,  left  me  an 
orphan,  for  my  father  fell  fighting  for  the  Jacobite 
cause  in  1715. 

My  grandmother  left  me  Ivy  Farm  and  all  that 
appertained  to  it,  and  it  has  been  my  desire  to 
fulfil  her  wishes,  as  much  as  in  me  lies,  and  follow 
in  her  steps.  . 

Hers  was  a  beautiful  old  age ;  and  who  could  live 
with  her  and  not  own  her  influence,  and  strive  to 
follow  her  example? 

She  mentioned  to  me  several  times  that  in  a 
small  oaken  chest  I  should  find  some  records  of 

her  early  life.      But   she   desired   that   they   should 

312 


IN  THE  CHOIR  OF  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY    313 

not  see  the  light  till  everyone  who,  perchance, 
might  take  umbrage  at  aught  that  she  had  said 
had  passed  away. 

For  a  long  time  my  search  for  these  papers  was 
fruitless,  and  I  began  to  despair  of  finding  them, 
when  one  day  Madge  Berkeley's  little  son,  rummag- 
ing in  the  garret  for  apples,  came  running  to  me 
with  a  small  box  in  his  hands,  on  which  were 
carved  the  letters  L.  B.  P. 

The  child  could  scarce  carry  it,  and  let  it  fall 
just  as  he  reached  my  chair.  The  lid  flew  open, 
and  out  fell  a  mass  of  papers,  yellow  with  age, 
and  with  delight  I  found  them  to  be  the  history 
of  my  grandmother's  young  days,  of  which  she  had 
spoken  to  me.  It  was  the  labour  of  some  months 
to  copy  and  put  the  manuscript  in  order.  Now  it 
is  done,  and  if  a  labour,  it  has  been  a  labour  of 
love.  I  have  changed  nothing  in  the  narrative, 
save  here  and  there  to  fill  in  a  space  with  a  word 
which  might  seem  appropriate.  As  will  be  seen, 
the  story  told  by  my  grandmother  ends  abruptly 
in  1695. 

There  were  but  few  more  pages,  and  these  were 
mostly  concerning  the  joys  and  sorrows  of  her 
uneventful  life  —  the  births  and  deaths  of  several 
children,  and  the  success  of  her  son  Henry,  who 
was  named  after  the  great  musician,  for  whom 


314  IN  THE  CHOIR  OF 

my  grandmother  entertained  the  most  devoted 
affection  throughout  her  long  life. 

The  mention  of  my  grandfather's  death  is  affect- 
ing in  its  simple  pathos.  She  wrote  of  it  in  few 
words,  thus, — 

'The  great  sorrow  of  my  life  fell  on  me  this 
Easter  day  of  1708.  My  husband  then  passed 
through  the  grave  and  gate  of  death,  and  left  me 
a  widow,  and  desolate.  I  can  say  no  more  of  this 
grief,  it  is  too  deep  for  words.  My  children  rise 
up  to  comfort  me,  and  I  give  thanks  that  they 
have  known  such  a  father.' 

My  Aunt  Elizabeth  made  a  rich  marriage,  and 
so  did  my  Uncle  Henry. 

Their  position  and  affluence  being  secured,  my 
grandmother  felt  no  scruple  in  leaving  me  this 
house,  where  I  am  now  writing. 

Nor  do  any  of  my  kindred  grudge  me  the  com- 
forts of  a  home  hallowed  with  the  memories  of  one 
who  was  my  very  dearest  and  best  friend,  and  who 
was,  indeed,  more  than  a  mother  to  me. 

Let  no  one  think  that  my  grandmother  lacked 
cheerfulness,  or  was  sad  and  melancholy  in  speech 
and  behaviour,  because  in  these  records  of  her  life 
she  has  to  tell  of  the  sorrows  which  fall  to  the  lot 
of  everyone,  with  but  few  exceptions,  in  this  chang- 
ing world. 


WESTMINSTER  ABBEY  315 

Of  my  grandmother  it  may  be  said  her  light 
shone  more  and  more  unto  the  perfect  day.  She 
had  ever  a  bright  smile  of  welcome  for  all  who 
came  to  Ivy  Farm,  always  a  cheery  word,  always 
leisure  to  rejoice  with  the  joyful,  and  I  sometimes 
think  this  is  more  difficult  than  to  sympathise  with 
the  sorrowful. 

The  young  loved  her,  and  brought  much  pleasure 
into  her  latter  years.  The  Madge  often  mentioned 
in  this  history  never  passed  a  year  without  coming 
hither  with  one  or  more  of  her  children,  and  she 
loved  my  grandmother  with  what  I  may  call  a 
passionate  devotion. 

As  Ivy  Farm  (or  Manor,  as  my  Uncle  Henry 
prefers  to  style  it,  now  he  is  risen  in  the  world) 
was  ever  open  in  my  grandmother's  lifetime  to 
her  children  and  children's  children,  so  I  desire  to 
keep  it  now.  If  any  are  sick  and  ailing,  they  come 
hither  for  country  air,  and  they  are  welcome. 

A  single  life  like  mine  has  its  charm,  and  I  have 
never  wished  to  change  my  estate,  for  reasons  which, 
without  entering  into  personal  details  of  a  now  far- 
off  time,  I  cannot  give. 

That  all  my  grandmother's  descendants  may  have 
a  true  picture  of  her,  drawn  by  her  own  hand,  is 
my  desire,  and  if  that  desire  is  fulfilled  I  shall  reap 
a  rich  reward. 


316    IN  THE  CHOIR  OF  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY 

Her  death  was  like  her  life — peaceful  and  full  of 
faith.  Westminster  Abbey  she  was  wont  to  call 
'  the  home  of  her  spirit,'  and  it  is  remarkable  that 
in  her  last  hours  she  believed  herself  to  be  there, 
again  and  again  asking  me  if  I  did  not  hear  the 
chimes  of  the  Abbey,  the  lovely  strains  of  the 
organ,  and  the  voices  of  the  choir.  In  dying  ears 
there  is  often  the  sound  of  music — the  music  which 
those  who  are  standing  by  hear  not. 

It  was  at  daybreak,  by  a  strange  coincidence,  on 
the  eve  of  St  Cecilia's  day,  that  my  grandmother 
departed  in  peace,  as  on  that  very  day  one  whom 
she  ever  loved  to  call  her  master — Henry  Purcell — 
entered  into  his  rest. 

FRANCES   MELVILLE. 


Written  at  her  house  of 
Ivy  Farm,  on  the  first  day 
of  October,  A.D.  1750. 


THE  END 


Colston  and  Coy.  Limited,  Printers,  Edinburgh 


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PR     Marshall,  Emma  Martin 

4,980     In  the  choir  of  Westminster 


1899 


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